QUICKSAND 


WHITE 


QUICKSAND 


By  HERVEY  WHITE 

DIFFERENCES.      A  Novel $1>S° 

WHEN  EVE  WAS  NOT  CREATED,  AND  OTHER  STORIES     .        1.25 


Small,  Maynard  &  Company 
Publishers,  Boston 


QUICKSAND 

Hervey  White 


SURE 
Q^OD 

SCIEN 


Boston 

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i  900 


Copyright^  /poo,  by 

Small)  Maynard  &  Company 

(Incorporated} 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


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Boston,  U.S.A 


9\*+s  m  f  *•  /  *  .^ 
74:00-4: 


IAJ 
Book   I  c/ 

Adelaide 


I. 

THE  evening  was  a  chill  one  i\i 
shadows  were  lengthening  on^tl^e  snow;;fcjajid  Jhe 
bare  twigs  of  trees,  hazy  blue,  .^ere^  d^epeni^ 
with  mystery  in  the  distance,  glowing  in  faint  purple 
on  the  hills  and  darkening  into  sadness  in  the  mountains. 
The  peaks  stood  out  clear  and  sharp  against  the  cold 
tints  of  the  sky.  Even  the  lowering  sun  could  barely 
tinge  them  with  rose  light,  so  dimmed  and  whitened  was 
he  with  his  swirling  halo  of  frost.  His  rays  found  more 
warmth  in  the  valley,  blushing  on  the  surface  of  the  snow 
and  burning  with  the  fierceness  of  flames  in  the  village 
windows  to  westward.  But  even  here,  in  thrifty,  hard 
working  New  Hampshire,  there  answered  no  human  re 
sponse  to  this  bounty  of  warmth  and  of  colour.  Except 
for  faint  wreathings  of  smoke  around  the  snow-muffled 
chimneys,  the  village  might  be  one  of  the  dead,  as  silent 
as  the  graveyard  beyond  it.  The  curving  road  rounded 
the  frozen  knoll.  White  houses,  white  as  the  snow,  shrank 
close  in  their  picket  enclosures.  There  was  no  wind,  the 
laughing  of  the  river  was  congealed,  birds  and  beasts 
alike  were  in  hiding,  men  were  within  by  their  fires.  The 
solitude  was  so  absolute  and  holy  that  angels  might  walk 
unmolested,  chanting  the  beauty  of  the  earth  and  the 
majesty  of  oncoming  night,  with  its  limitless  glory  of 
stars. 

There  came  a  sudden  interruption,  a  murmur  and 
babble  of  voices,  the  shrill,  joyous  voices  of  children, 
increasing  in  sound  and  in  tension,  like  the  siren  of 
machines  newly  started.  The  point  of  explosion  was 
reached  when  the  door  of  the  village  school-house  burst 
open,  and  the  crowded  children  tumbled  out  like  ripe 
seeds  from  their  capsule.  They  spotted  the  white  snow 


4  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

around  with  restless  confusion  of  colour,  rolling  and 
bumping  in  divergence,  intoxicated  with  space  and  noise, 
freedom,  and  the  bubbling  spirit  of  childhood. 

"  Hooray  !  Hooray  I  "  they  shouted.  "  Four  o'clock  I 
and  this  is  "Friday  I  No  more  school  till  Monday  1 
Hooray  1 " 

The  boys  began  pelting  each  other  with  snowballs,  the 
girls  danced  and  jingled  their  tin  dinner-pails,  little  ones 
leaped  for  pure  joy,  and  added  their  shouts  to  the  con 
fusion.  The  larger  girls,  who  styled  themselves  young 
ladies,  but  were  none  the  less  spoken  of  as  "  big  girls," 
came  out  of  the  door  last  of  all,  in  a  more  dignified 
though  giggling  group.  Many  of  them  were  watching  for 
their  sweethearts  or,  as  Tamworth  Village  put  it,  their 
"  beaux,"  from  the  crowd  of  snowballing  boys,  who  now 
began  shying  up  bashfully  with  laughing  pretences  of 
boldness.  There  was  singing-school  Friday  nights,  and 
escorts  had  to  be  accepted. 

"There's  Adelaide  with  Rob  the  Robber.  Rob  is 
Adelaide's  beau,"  screamed  a  mischievous,  dancing  small 
boy,  whose  eyes  were  always  seeing. 

"  Shut  up  I  "  said  a  big  boy,  making  a  dive  at  the  duck 
ing  urchin.  "  What  do  you  know  about  beaux  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  want  her  yourself,  Hiram  Stubbs,  only  you're 
one  of  the  family !  "  shrieked  the  escaping  youngster,  as 
he  made  a  dodge  through  the  fence.  "  Adelaide  and  Rob 
the  Robber  1  Adelaide  and  Rob  the  Robber  1 "  he  kept 
singing,  as  he  skipped  out  of  reach. 

Some  of  the  other  children  took  up  the  cry,  and  it 
shrilled  out  all  through  the  village.  The  big  girls  tossed 
their  heads  in  superior  fashion,  and  the  big  boys  looked 
sheepishly  embarrassed.  All  of  the  attention  was  now 
fixed  on  a  pair  standing  near  to  the  doorway, —  a  tall,  pale 
girl  with  long  braids  of  red  hair  and  a  dark  youth,  foreign 


Qji  icksand  5 

to  New  England.  The  girl's  face  was  flushed  as  with 
recent  weeping,  and  her  eyes  were  flashing  defiance  at 
the  crowd.  The  bronze  face  of  the  youth  was  suffused 
with  a  look  of  tender  concern,  like  that  of  a  young  Saint 
John  in  old  pictures.  He  was  gloriously  beautiful,  only 
the  others  did  not  see  this.  They  saw  that  he  was  differ 
ent  from  themselves,  and  therefore  to  be  held  up  for  de 
rision. 

"  Adelaide  and  Rob  the  Robber !  "  went  up  the  cry  of 
the  children. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  demanded  a  dark-haired  boy, 
coming  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  school-house,  where  he 
had  been  talking  with  one  of  the  girls.  "  Here,  Addie, 
haven't  you  gone  home  yet  ?  Why  don't  you  go  along, 
and  'tend  to  Mary?  Here,  you've  got  to  carry  the 
dinner-pail.  I  always  carry  it  in  the  morning."  Then, 
turning  to  the  youth  at  her  side  :  "  What  are  you  hanging 
around  for,  you  black  gypsy  ?  I  won't  have  you  making 
eyes  at  my  sister.  If  I  see  you  talking  to  her  again,  I'll 
slap  all  the  black  off  your  face."  He  thrust  himself  in 
between  the  two,  and  forced  the  girl  toward  the  street. 
She  was  at  first  for  turning  on  him  defiantly  with  the  look 
she  had  given  the  others ;  but,  seeing  the  distress  in  the 
face  of  the  gypsy,  the  dumb,  pitiful  pleading  of  the  eyes, 
she  walked  away  homeward  instead,  her  fierce  pride 
stiffening  her  like  iron. 

"  If  Rob  would  only  fight  him  !  "  she  muttered.  "  But 
he's  backward  and  sensitive  as  a  girl." 

She  came  to  the  crossing  of  the  roads  where  a  group  of 
children  stood  waiting. 

"Go  on  home,  Lib,  and  stop  gabbing,"  she  said,  taking 
a  black-eyed,  twelve-year-old  girl  by  the  shoulder  and 
whirling  her  into  position.  "  Look  at  Mary  half-way  up 
the  hill  with  Hiram  1 " 


6  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  I  don't  care.  I'm  waiting  for  Sam  1 "  screamed  out 
the  startled  Libbie.  "  You're  mad  because  Sam  is  going 
to  whip  your  beau.  Adelaide  and  Rob  the  Robber ! " 
she  began  tauntingly,  as  she  skipped  about  at  safe  dis 
tance. 

"  Hiram,  make  her  stop  1 "  pleaded  Adelaide,  as  soon 
as  her  swift  steps  had  overtaken  him.  "  They're  nagging 
the  very  life  out  of  me." 

"  Come,  Libbie,  come  on,  and  I'll  give  you  a  ride  pick- 
a-back.  Come  on  now,  and  stop  teasing  your  sister. 
No  ?  Well,  then,  I'll  give  Mary  a  ride,"  he  said,  stooping 
down  to  make  ready. 

"  No,  no,  Hiram,  me  first.  I'll  be  good.  You  promised 
me  a  ride  before  Mary."  And  the  little  girl  ran  to  him 
wildly,  and  clambered  up  on  his  broad  shoulders. 

The  four  went  on  their  way  peacefully,  big  Hiram 
talking  with  the  children,  and  Adelaide  visibly  softened. 

Soon  Sam  came  blowing  and  puffing,  having  silenced 
the  crowd  at  the  school-house. 

"  Here,  Addie,  you  needn't  think  your're  going  to  get 
out  of  carrying  the  dinner-pail,"  he  called,  and  tried  to 
force  it  into  her  hands. 

"  Sam  Hinckley,  I  won't.  Leave  me  alone.  I'm  car 
rying  all  these  books."  She  kept  her  hands  clinched  up 
tight. 

"  All  right,  spit  fire :  let  it  stay  here  till  Monday."  And, 
dropping  it  down  in  the  snow  in  front  of  her,  he  ran  on, 
still  puffing  and  blowing. 

Adelaide  walked  around  the  pail,  which  Hiram  picked 
quietly  up. 

"  You  shan't  carry  it,"  she  said,  seeing  that  he  held  it. 
"  It's  his  place.  You  have  got  your  books,  and  may  have 
to  take  Mary.  Leave  it  sit  right  there  where  it  was. 
Mother  will  make  Sam  come  back  and  get  it." 


Qju  icksand  7 

"I  ought  to  have  taken  it  from  the  first,"  answered 
Hiram,  apologetically,  still  keeping  the  pail  in  his  hand. 

"Hiram,  you  shan't,  you  shan't!  I'll  kill  myself, 
Hiram,  if  you  do.  Make  him  come  back.  Give  it  up  to 
me,  Hiram."  She  was  crying  with  the  frenzy  of  rage. 
Hiram  Stubbs  was  powerless  before  her.  Who  was  this 
girl  struggling  with  him?  Not  the  Adelaide  he  had 
known  always,  with  the  gentle,  bird-like,  wild  ways. 

"  Take  the  pail  of  course,"  he  said  gently.  "  Whatever 
is  the  matter  with  you,  Addie  ?  It's  easy  enough  for  me 
to  carry.  Your  mother  would  not  like  it  if  I  left  it." 

The  girl  took  the  pail  back  to  the  exact  spot  where 
Sam  had  set  it  down. 

"  Let  it  stay  there,"  she  said  defiantly,  "  till  Sam  comes 
to  pick  it  up.  Don't  try  to  go  back  for  it  again,"  seeing 
Hiram  still  hesitated.  "  It  shall  stay  there  if  I  watch  it 
all  night." 

He  saw  how  determined  she  was,  and  together  they 
went  on  homeward. 

"  How  she  is  changed !  "  he  kept  thinking.  "  She  has 
always  been  so  gentle  before." 

They  came  to  a  white  house  against  a  hill,  with  an 
avenue  of  elms  down  in  front.  The  yellow  light  of  sun 
set  was  glowing  in  the  sky  through  the  trees.  Winter 
days  are  short  in  New  England. 

It  was  Hiram  who  opened  the  door.  Little  Mary 
slipped  down  from  his  arms.  A  warm  rush  of  light  and 
air  greeted  them  as  they  stepped  inside. 

"  Be  careful  and  sweep  off  the  snow,"  said  a  voice  com 
ing  out  from  the  back.  "  What  has  made  you  so  late  ? 
Sam  came  in  five  minutes  ago." 

"  He  ran,"  said  Hiram,  briefly,  taking  off  his  coat  and 
putting  on  an  old  one  to  make  ready  for  the  coming 
chores. 


8  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"And  he  set  down  the  dinner-pail,"  began  Libbie, 
bursting  with  excitement  of  news  to  be  telling ;  "  and  the 
children  were  calling  out  all  the  time,  '  Adelaide  and  Rob 
the  Robber,'  and  Hiram  gave  me  a  pick-a-back,  and 
Addie  is  mad  with  Hiram." 

Adelaide  had  slipped  away  upstairs  to  the  cold  room 
that  she  shared  with  her  sisters.  The  fierceness  was  still 
burning  within  her.  Could  it  be  that  she  was  really 
Adelaide  ? 

She  listened  to  the  talk  below.  The  kitchen  stove-pipe 
came  up  through  the  floor  of  her  room,  and  she  could  hear 
all  that  passed  quite  distinctly.  Sam  came  in  cross  and 
sullen,  and  Hiram  made  reluctant  admissions  as  her 
mother  put  searching  questions.  Finally,  her  father  came 
in ;  and  explanations  of  the  quarrel  were  repeated.  Hiram 
was  sent  back  for  the  dinner-pail.  It  could  not  be  all 
Sam's  fault. 

Adelaide  crept  off  to  the  bed.  The  stove-pipe  could 
not  keep  her  warm  enough.  She  knew  she  would  be 
called  down  to  supper,  and  she  wondered  if  a  headache 
would  excuse  her. 

There  came  in  time  the  dreaded  step  on  the  stairs, —  her 
mother's  vague  form  in  the  doorway,  tall  and  uncertain  in 
the  darkness. 

"  Adelaide,  what  is  all  this  trouble  ?  I  have  never 
known  you  to  behave  so." 

If  the  mother's  voice  had  not  been  kind,  she  could 
have  braved  it  out  a  time  longer.  But  now  all  the  flood 
gates  were  opened.  Her  ignorance  and  the  horror  were 
unbearable.  She  ran  across  the  room  and  fell,  grasping 
the  woman's  knees.  "O  mother,  keep  still  while  I 
whisper  I  I  —  I  —  have  got  to  marry  Rob  Melendez." 


II. 

THE  atmosphere  was  heavy  that  evening.     Hiram 
felt  it   on   coming    in  from    his    choring.     Mrs. 
Hinckley  did  not  come  down   to  supper,  neither 
did  Adelaide  appear.     It  would  be  a  good  time  for  him 
to  slip  over  and  see  Rob  Melendez,  though  Saturday  was 
his   usual   night.     It  was   generally  hard   to   avoid   em 
barrassing   questions  when  Hiram  chose  to  go  out,  but 
to-night  he  felt  that  Mrs.  Hinckley  would  not  notice.     It 
might  be  that  Adelaide  was  not  well.     She  certainly  had 
been  irritable  of  late. 

Supper  over,  he  put  on  his  coat,  cap,  and  mittens,  to 
carry  in  wood  from  the  shed.  It  was  easy  enough  after 
the  last  armful  to  step  out  of  the  wood-shed  door,  and  take 
a  short  cut  across  the  pasture.  He  liked  to  walk  through 
the  unbroken  snow  :  his  stout  boots  sent  the  star  crystals 
flying.  He  would  go  direct  to  the  sap-house  to-night, 
and  not  take  time  for  the  longer  road  by  McDonald's. 
It  was  probable  that  Rob  would  be  there.  He  always 
sought  the  place,  when  in  trouble.  The  fire,  he  said,  gave 
him  comfort.  The  pasture  crossed,  Hiram  plunged  into 
a  black  wood  below  the  hill,  then  down  into  a  blacker 
ravine.  The  snow  held  the  light,  however,  once  he  was 
inside ;  and  the  stars  could  still  be  seen  overhead  through 
the  frost-crackling  network  of  boughs.  Up  the  ravine 
bank  he  went  through  the  ghostly  solitude  till  he  had 
reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  he  stopped  to  recon 
noitre.  Yes,  he  had  not  miscalculated  his  direction.  He 
steadied  himself  for  a  breath,  and  gave  a  low,  mourning 
whistle.  Was  not  Rob  there,  after  all  ?  he  thought ;  and 
then  a  smile  came  to  his  face,  for  the  same  wailing  answer 
came  back.  He  plunged  into  the  wood  straight  ahead, 
the  bushes  snapping  before  him.  There  was  the  sap- 


io  Qjiicksand 

house  shanty,  and  firelight  flickering  through  the  door 
way.  But  why  did  not  Rob  come  to  meet  him?  He 
pushed  himself  in  through  the  door,  and  shoved  it  back 
creaking  to  the  jamb. 

"  You're  in  the  dumps,"  he  said  cheerily,  walking  over 
to  the  fire.  "  You  can't  even  speak  to  a  fellow." 

The  gypsy  half  turned  and  looked  toward  him,  but 
without  the  lifting  of  his  eyes.  He  was  lying  on  a 
blanket  on  the  hearth,  watching  the  flames  in  the 
chimney. 

Hiram  walked  over  to  the  hearth  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  blaze,  warming  his  palms  behind  him,  and 
looking  up  at  the  smoke-browned  rafters  where  the  flick 
ering  light  battled  with  huge  shadows.  It  was  a  picture 
he  was  always  fond  of :  he  liked  it  better  than  the  ones 
he  saw  printed  in  books.  Could  he  have  seen  the  whole 
of  the  picture  1  But  that  it  was  not  given  him  to  see. 
He  must  pose  as  the  unconscious  model. 

The  old  sap- house  with  its  weather-tanned  boards  and 

the  firelight  lapping  upon  them  was  but  the  background 

\  for  a  group :  a  fair,  stripling  youth  standing  with   back 

;  to  the  fire,  his  vague  face  turned   to  look  upward ;  and 

beside  him,  and   lying  at   his  feet,  another  youth,  dark 

with  the  South,  and  like  the  South  in  his  beauty.     There 

was  something  of  the  creature  of  the  sun  in  this  gypsy, 

worshipping   his  fire-god.     There  was   the  spirit   of   the 

forest  in  the  other,  the  giant  soul  yearning  toward   the 

night,  the  mystical  shifting  of  darkness. 

But  reverses  were  on  them  to-night.  The  melancholy  of 
the  forests  was  merry,  and  the  joy  of  the  sunshine  was 
clouded.  Hiram  laughed  out  hearty  and  long.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  exhilaration  of  walking  through  the  starlight, 
or  perhaps  the  animal  pleasure  of  companionship,  of  being 
with  the  creature  he  loved. 


Qj 


uicksand 


ii 


Rob  reached  up,  and  took  hold  of  his  hand.  There 
was  the  pleading  of  a  wounded  deer  in  his  eyes. 

"  Sit  down,  Hiram,"  was  all  that  he  said.  "  Sit  close  to 
me  here  on  the  blanket." 

With  the  frank  laughter  still  in  his  eyes,  Hiram 
brought  a  sap-pail  from  the  corner,  and,  turning  it  bottom 
side  up,  planted  himself  firmly  on  the  improvised  stool. 
"  I  am  not  good  at  lounging,"  he  said ;  and  then,  more 
thoughtfully,  with  his  hand  on  Rob's  shoulder,  "  You  are 
thinking  of  Sam  Hinckley  to-night." 

"  I  will  kill  him,"  replied  the  gypsy,  slowly.  "  I  have 
brought  a  knife,  and  I  will  kill  him."  As  he  spoke,  he 
drew  a  large  knife  from  his  pocket,  one  commonly  used 
by  farmers  for  pig-killing. 

"Why  don't  you  stand  up  and  fight  him,  when  he 
insults  you  ? "  said  Hiram,  undisturbed  by  the  threat. 
"  Use  your  fists  like  a  man.  It's  cowardly  using  a  knife. 
You  never  would  let  me  teach  you  to  box.  Of  course, 
you  would  get  the  worst  of  it  with  Sam.  He's  heavy,  and 
you  are  light.  Besides,  he  knows  the  play." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  cowardly  to  use  a  knife  ?  "  in 
terrupted  the  other,  impatiently.  "  Let  him  get  a  knife, 
too,  if  he  likes.  I  see  no  bravery  in  standing  up  and 
pounding  with  fists  and  calling  everything  settled  when 
one  is  senseless.  I  hate  him,  and  will  only  be  satisfied 
when  he  is  dead ;  or  let  him  kill  me,  if  he  can.  I  call  it 
cowardly  to  fight :  it  is  bravery  only  to  kill." 

Hiram  was  something  abashed  by  this  denial  of  the 
established  rules  of  society.  "  But  you'll  have  the  law  on 
you,"  he  said  finally ;  "  and  they  will  hang  you  for  a 
murderer." 

The  youth  laughed  scornfully.  "  The  law  !  the  law  1 " 
he  said.  "  When  has  the  law  been  my  protector  ?  It  will 
hang  me  for  not  killing  him  if  it  chooses.  Has  the  law 
ever  stopped  for  a  gypsy  ?  " 


12  Qjiicksand 

"  But  you  are  not  a  gypsy  any  longer.  You  have  set 
tled  and  hired  out  to  McDonald.  He  will  see  that  you 
receive  justice." 

Rob's  eyes  changed  from  defiance  to  cunning.  "  Lily 
McDonald,"  he  said, —  "I  believe  Sam  is  in  love  with 
Lily  McDonald." 

"  What's  that  to  you  ? "  answered  Hiram,  uneasily. 
"  You  care  for  Adelaide,  don't  you  ? " 

"  Poor  Adelaide  1 "  said  the  gypsy  boy,  tenderly. 
"  Poor  Adelaide !  She  was  crying  to-day.  Hiram,  I 
am  breaking  her  heart." 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  fool,"  replied  Hiram,  gruffly ;  but  he 
allowed  Rob  to  reach  for  his  hand,  and  his  fingers  closed 
whh  firm,  even  grip  when  he  felt  the  smaller  ones  enter. 

"  Ah  1  Hiram,  you  were  never  in  love.  Then  you  would 
not  talk  so  to  me.  How  beautiful  she  is !  "  he  resumed 
after  a  pause.  "  To  me  she  is  always  beautiful.  Do  you 
remember  the  Song  of  Solomon,  where  the  man  is  singing 
of  his  love  ?  '  Thy  lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet,  and 
thy  speech  is  comely,'  goes  the  song.  '  Thy  temples  are 
like  a  piece  of  pomegranate  within  thy  locks.'  Did  you 
ever  see  a  pomegranate,  Hiram?  I  seem  to,  and  yet 
can't  remember." 

"  Hush !  "  said  Hiram.  "  You  are  irreverent.  That 
song  is  to  show  Christ's  love  for  the  Church." 

"It  may  be,"  replied  Rob,  half  dreaming.  "But  it 
sounds  to  me  like  man's  love  for  a  woman.  '  Her  eyes 
are  like  dove's  eyes,'  "  he  repeated.  And  then  suddenly, 
half-rising  up,  "  I  wonder,  Hiram,  that  you  are  not  in  love 
with  her." 

"  How  could  I  be,  you  simpleton  ?  Living  there  in  the 
same  house  as  I  do,  I  know  too  much  of  her  to  be  in  love. 
She  seems  to  me  like  a  sister.  You  would  never  think 
she's  seventeen." 


Qjiicksand  13 

"  She  is  a  child,"  said  the  Southern  boy,  caressingly. 
"  How  beautiful  she  was  in  the  haying  last  summer,  when 
you  and  I  were  up  there  with  her  father  in  the  moun 
tains  1 " 

"  Her  father  should  have  known  better  than  to  take  her 
up  there  alone  to  do  the  cooking,"  said  Hiram. 

"  Yet  who  would  have  thought  of  her  loving  a  gypsy  1 
And,  as  you  say,  you  are  like  a  brother,"  said  Rob. 

"  I  used  to  think  you  were  a  curious  fellow  until  I  came 
to  know  you,"  said  Hiram,  fondly.  "  I  used  to  fight  shy 
of  you  at  first." 

"  I  know,  and  so  did  she ;  but,  as  you  say,  she's  but  a 
child,  and  children  are  never  afraid  of  me.  They  run  to 
me,  just  like  animals.  They  only  think  me  strange  when 
they  have  been  taught  to  think  so." 

"  Rob,  sometimes  I  think  you  are  a  wise  man." 

"  A  wise  man  is  most  like  a  child,  and  Adelaide  is  like 
a  wise  man.  Did  you  ever  hear  her  sing,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  a  little,  singing  about  the  house  as  she 
works." 

"  Oh,  but  you  should  hear  her  sing  with  me  1  Here  is 
a  song  she  has  written  down  for  me.  We  are  going  to 
sing  it  together." 

He  drew  from  his  inside  coat  pocket  a  carefully  folded 
piece  of  paper ;  and,  after  pressing  it  tenderly  to  his  lips, 
he  proceeded  to  unfold  it  on  his  knee,  patting  it  as  he 
would  the  head  of  a  child.  Inside  was  a  long  ring  of 
hair,  shining  red  as  copper  in  the  firelight.  "  Is  it  not 
beautiful  ?  "  he  said,  holding  it  up  before  his  eyes  much  as 
a  child  might  a  toy. 

"  You  great  big  baby  1 "  said  Hiram,  softly. 

"  I  put  it  under  my  pillow  every  night,"  continued  Rob, 
"  and  all  night  I  dream  of  her.  But  her  hair  is  not  so 
beautiful  as  her  eyes.  Your  eyes  make  me  think  of  hers, 
Hiram." 


14  Qjiicksand 

"  You've  told  me  that  before,"  replied  Hiram,  good- 
naturedly. 

"  Yes,  but  you  like  me  to  tell  it  again.  How  white  your 
hands  are  beside  mine,  now  as  we  hold  them  together  1 " 

"  My  hands  are  red  and  ugly  with  the  cold." 

"  But  not  far  back  on  the  wrist.  My  arms  are  as  brown 
as  my  hands.  See  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  have  seen  you  in  swimming." 

"  I  must  look  odd  among  all  the  white  boys.  I  don't 
wonder  they  think  I'm  different.  I  am  different,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  You  are,  that's  so,"  said  Hiram,  shaking  him  heartily 
by  the  shoulder.  "  Lying  here,  talking  like  a  girl.  What 
other  boy  would  do  that  ?  " 

"  Any  other  boy  would  think  it,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
see  why  I  should  not  be  honest.  I  don't  tell  anybody  but 
you.  You  know  I  don't  tell  any  one  else." 

"  I  know,  I  know ;  and,  when  I'm  in  love,  I'll  tell  you. 
That  will  make  us  even,"  said  Hiram. 

"  Will  you,  will  you  really  ? "  queried  Rob,  with  some 
thing  more  of  eagerness  than  usual.  Then,  thoughtfully, 
after  long  thinking :  — 

"  Hiram,  there's  one  thing  I  have  never  told  you. 
Something  I  never  could  tell,  only  to-day,  from  what 
Adelaide  said,  I  may  need  you  to  help  me,  Hiram." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  Hiram,  abruptly. 

"  Why,  you  know  before,  when  I  have  asked  her  to  marry 
me,  she  has  only  looked  frightened,  and  said  her  mother 
would  not  let  her,  that  she  would  see  her  dead  first ;  but 
to-day,  you  know,  after  she  had  been  crying  to-night  while 
the  others  were  shouting  she  said, —  are  you  listening, 
Hiram?  —  she  said  she  would  have  to  marry  me  now." 

"  What  did  she  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  ?     Can't  you  guess  ? "  he  half  whis- 


Qjuicksand  15 

pered,  reaching  his  hand  up  to  the  face  of  the  other. 
"  It  is  very  fearful,  Hiram,  to  think  of ;  and  yet  it  is  very 
sweet.  Do  you  suppose  I  could  be  a  father  ?  " 

Hiram  Stubbs  leaped  from  his  seat  as  if  the  house  had 
been  struck  by  lightning. 

"  Why,  Rob  1  "  was  all  he  could  gasp. 

The  gypsy  remained  as  if  dreaming,  his  eyes  fixed  in 
tent  on  the  fire. 

Hiram  began  walking  up  and  down  the  rough  floor. 
It  was  some  time  before  he  could  find  breath  for  speak 
ing,  and  then  he  seemed  fairly  to  shout. 

"  I  never  thought  it  could  have  gone  —  I  never 
dreamed  —  Why,  you  are  a  rascal,  a  villain  !  Get  up  1  I 
feel  like  kicking  you  out  doors.  Get  up,  and  fight  for 
yourself !  Pull  out  your  cowardly  knife  I  I  will  fight 
with  you  empty-handed.  Such  treachery  1 "  He  kept 
walking  and  fuming,  while  the  other  lay  still  by  the  fire, 
half  dazed  with  the  whirlwind  he  had  excited. 

Hiram  continued  to  walk  and  revile,  calling  on  the 
gypsy  to  fight  him.  At  length  he  called  with  some  effect, 
for  Rob  sprang  to  his  feet  like  a  cat.  With  one  fling  he 
sent  the  knife  whirling  into  the  fire ;  and,  throwing  his 
coat  into  a  corner,  he  stood  with  his  delicate  muscles  all 
quivering,  fine  lines  playing  over  his  face. 

"  I  would  not  fight  Sam,"  he  said  piteously ;  "  but  I  will 
fight  with  you,  Hiram,  if  you  wish  it,  and  give  you  as 
good  as  I  can." 

The  mood  in  some  way  satisfied  the  other.  He 
stopped  before  the  threatening  figure. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  it,  Rob?"  he  said  in  more 
subdued  tone. 

"  You  forget  that  we  loved  each  other,"  answered  the 
dark  youth,  tremulously.  "  We  loved,  and  we  were  much 
together.  I  suppose  it  is  terrible  with  your  religion,  but 
to  us  it  was  only  natural." 


1 6  Qjiicksand 

His  face  had  the  haunted  pleading  of  a  child.  Would 
he  lose  now  his  only  friend  ? 

But  Hiram  saw  that  he  had  other  than  Puritan  stuff 
here  to  deal  with.  He  was  not  very  old  in  his  years,  but 
he  was  beginning  to  learn  already  that  all  people  are  not 
like  New  Englanders. 

"  May  God  pity  you  both  1 "  he  said  hoarsely ;  and, 
seizing  his  coat  and  his  cap,  he  escaped  out  into  the 
darkness. 

"  There  was  love,  though,  love  in  his  tones,"  said  the 
gypsy,  after  closing  the  door ;  and  with  that  he  seemed 
to  take  comfort  as  he  nestled  down  on  the  hearth. 


III. 

ADELAIDE  was  locked  in  her  room.  She  had 
been  there  since  coming  from  school.  Her 
mother,  after  listening  to  her  confession,  had 
gone  away  without  a  word,  locking  the  door  and  taking 
the  key  with  her.  Once,  late  in  the  evening,  she  had 
come  in  for  the  children's  night-dresses;  but  Adelaide 
would  have  pretended  to  be  asleep,  even  if  her  mother 
had  addressed  her.  There  was  no  lieed  of  the  subter 
fuge,  however.  Libbie  and  little  Mary  slept  downstairs 
that  night,  leaving  their  frightened  sister  alone  to  toss 
open-eyed  in  her  bed.  In  the  morning  the  door  had  re 
ceded  for  a  moment,  and  some  bread  was  laid  on  the 
table  near  by.  The  mother  had  come  in  later  on  to  get 
some  aprons  for  the  children,  but  without  giving  a  glance 
toward  her  daughter,  who  sat  sullenly  watching  by  the 
stove-pipe. 

How  long  the  morning  had  been  1  The  girl  had  listened 
to  all  the  life  going  on  below, —  the  preparing  of  breakfast, 
the  coming  in  of  Sam  and  Hiram  from  the  chores,  the 
quiet  of  family  prayers  with  the  even  drone  of  her  father's 
voice  reading,  then  the  clink  of  knives  and  forks  on  the 
plates. 

She  was  forever  now  banned  from  that  cheer  of  the 
breakfast  together.  It  had  never  seemed  an  occasion  for 
especial  rejoicing  before,  but  now  it  was  the  light  and 
warmth  of  Paradise.  She  listened  with  her  ear  to  the 
floor,  like  Eve  outside  of  the  gate.  Her  thick  hair  fell 
over  her  ears,  and  she  dashed  it  back  as  in  fury.  Only  to 
hear,  to  catch  the  loved  sound  of  their  voices  1  There 
was  a  little  circle  of  holes  close  around  the  surface  of  the 
stove-pipe,  and  she  strained  for  a  peep  below  till  her 
temples  were  blacked  with  stove  polish ;  but  only  the  top 


1 8  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

of  the  cook-stove  was  visible,  with  its  kettles  and  two  flat- 
irons  on  the  back.  She  remembered  that  she  had  in 
tended  to  iron  some  doll  clothes  for  Libbie  this  morning. 
She  had  been  teasing  about  it  all  through  the  week.  How 
far  away  it  seemed  now  from  herself  1  Her  past  life  had 
become  like  her  view  of  the  cook-stove,  only  seen  through 
tiny  peep-holes  and  with  straining, —  even  then  dim  with 
dust  and  tears  and  down  as  from  another  world.  Her 
point  of  view  had  quite  altered. 

She  was  roused  from  a  bewildered  reverie  by  the  sound 
of  the  pushing  back  of  their  chairs.  Breakfast  was  over, 
it  seemed,  and  not  a  word  nor  a  thought  of  her.  Then 
Hiram  came  to  stand  close  by  the  stove :  he  was  warming 
his  mittens  on  the  pipe.  He  was  talking  now  with  her 
mother,  asking  if  the  children  might  go  with  him  and 
Sam  to  the  upper  farm.  They  were  going  for  a  load  of 
wood. 

"  We  can  build  a  big  fire,  and  have  the  place  warm  in 
no  time,"  he  was  saying.  "  And  Libbie  and  Mary  will  be 
good  and  stay  in  the  house  as  we  tell  them,  won't  you, 
Libbie  ?  "  half  teasingly. 

There  was  vagueness  in  the  matter  which  followed,  but 
it  seemed  to  have  been  arranged ;  for  Mary  was  singing 
happily,  and  Libbie  was  dancing  around  the  table.  After 
various  comings  and  goings,  broken  talk  about  the  ride 
and  the  weather,  and  the  dinner  that  was  being  stowed  in 
a  water-pail,  interrupted  with  the  babble  of  the  children, 
there  was  a  slamming  of  doors  and  a  draught  of  cold  air 
through  the  ventilator ;  and  Mrs.  Hinckley  was  left  alone 
with  the  routine  of  work  of  the  dishes  and  the  regular 
Saturday  baking. 

Adelaide  drew  back  on  her  knees,  to  rest  from  her 
cramped  position. 

The  change  brought  her  back  to  herself,  to  her  own 


Qjjicksand  19 

world  into  which  she  was  cast.  Gradually  the  numbness 
went  out  of  her;  and  she  rose  and  crossed  the  room 
for  a  chair,  which  she  brought  back  to  the  warmth  of  the 
stove-pipe.  Still,  she  felt  chilled  with  the  winter,  and 
brought  a  coverlet  from  the  bed  and  wrapped  it  around 
her  shoulders.  It  was  a  patchwork  quilt  of  star  pattern. 
She  had  pieced  it  herself  four  years  ago.  According  to 
her  habit  every  morning,  she  unbraided  and  began  comb 
ing  her  hair.  Her  weeping  could  not  make  that  ugly. 
It  hung  in  rich  waves  on  her  shoulders,  and  gathered  in 
red  wealth  in  her  lap.  Looking  at  her  hair  made  her 
think  what  Rob  said  of  it,  and  this  was  the  beginning 
of  her  present  reasons  for  banishment.  She  would  go 
through  methodically  from  the  first,  and  try  to  foresee 
some  conclusion. 

It  began  with  the  hay  farm  last  summer ;  or  had  that 
been  the  happy  conclusion  ?  Why  could  not  those  days 
have  ended  it,  the  pleading  of  his  eyes  in  the  starlight 
and  his  breath  caressingly  on  her  ?  What  dear  fire  glowed 
from  his  touch  1  His  eyes  were  like  deep  wells  of  water, 
and  his  delicate  lips  moved  like  blown  flames.  Rob's 
hair  was  beautiful,  too,  coal-black,  and  more  curling  than 
hers.  He  used  to  twine  her  long  hair  about  his,  and  his 
dark  face  shone  starlike  with  laughter.  Rob  had  very 
delicate  features,  clean-cut  and  shifting  in  fine  lines ;  and 
his  teeth  were  like  ivory,  polished.  What  did  she  know 
of  man's  love,  except  that  it  was  the  sweetness  of  earth  ? 
It  belonged  to  the  smell  of  new  hay  and  the  moisture  of 
midsummer  nights. 

She  had  known  Rob  since  her  young  girlhood.  She 
had  liked  him,  too,  because  she  pitied  him.  The  other 
children  were  always  taunting  him  for  being  a  gypsy.  It 
was  not  known  that  he  was  even  a  gypsy.  Her  father 
thought  he  was  more  probably  the  son  of  a  Portuguese 


20  i  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


pirate  or  maybe  a  Spanish  grandee.  The  gypsies  were 
always  stealing  children  and  hardly  would  be  willing  to 
desert  their  own. 

At  all  events,  the  passion  of  Rob  Melendez  had  spread 
itself  over  her  that  summer.  How  dreamful  it  all  seemed 
to  her  now  1  though  she  remembered  every  instant  they 
had  been  together.  The  love-light  flowing  from  his  eyes, 
the  tremulous  fire  in  his  kisses,  —  what  did  she  know  of 
love  or  of  men  ?  Who  had  told  her  that  it  meant  dis 
grace  in  this  world  and  everlasting  burning  in  the  next, 
with  the  devil  and  fearful  imps  laughing,  and  the  groans 
of  the  thousands  in  anguish  ? 

Even  after  the  summer  was  over,  the  long  summer  with 
rich  star-dark  nights,  even  when  the  winter's  school 
opened,  she  did  not  know  how  she  had  sinned.  Her  love 
with  Rob  had  been  too  deep  and  intimate  a  thing  to  con 
fess  to  any  one,  but  it  was  not  shame  that  kept  her  silent. 
But  one  day  she  overheard  Susy  Ramsay  talking  about 
Jennie  Blackwell,  to  whom  she  had  been  bosom  friend. 
Jennie  had  been  suddenly  dropped  out  of  all  social  life,  — 
she  and  all  of  her  family.  It  was  something  that  Susy 
had  mentioned  which  brought  fear  home  to  Adelaide.  It 
had  risen  like  a  chill  from  the  ground,  had  settled  all 
over  her,  clutching  most  breathlessly  at  her  heart.  She 
knew  now  what  Christian  must  have  meant  by  his  burden 
of  sin.  Her  sin  was  everywhere  with  her,  more  terrible 
because  she  could  not  foresee  its  import  nor  could  she 
confide  in  anybody.  She  had  tried  to  pray  to  the  Lord 
Jesus,  but  probably  because  her  sin  was  so  great  she 
could  get  no  answer  now  from  Him. 

In  some  vague  way  an  old  myth  kept  haunting  her.  She 
did  not  remember  where  she  had  heard  it,  though  she 
racked  her  brains  morning  and  night.  It  was  of  a 
woman  who  had  given  birth  to  monsters,  hounds  or  ser- 


Quicksand  21 

pents  or  something.  She  could  not  remember  the  par 
ticulars,  but  it  was  probably  a  punishment  administered 
to  her  for  some  similar  sin  to  her  own.  She  woke  up 
screaming  sometimes  from  her  dreams.  The  monsters 
were  suffocating  or  stinging  her. 

Yesterday  she  had  questioned  Susy  more  closely  about 
Jennie,  and  had  learned  more  fully  the  particulars.  Her 
mother  had  forbade  her  ever  speaking  of  Jennie  to  any 
one  or  even  thinking  about  her.  In  this  she  had  com 
mitted  another  sin. 

Susy  had  been  much  amused  at  Adelaide's  ignorance  of 
matters  concerning  which  she,  though  but  little  older, 
seemed  well  informed.  The  conversation  ended  with 
Susy's  comment :  "  Jennie  was  a  fool,  or  she  would  have 
made  her  lover  marry  her  instead  of  going  off,  as  she  did, 
to  the  city." 

Adelaide  was  still  in  bewilderment  when  the  bell  rang 
to  call  them  back  to  lessons.  She  took  out  her  Bible, 
concealing  it  behind  her  geography,  and  read  with  new 
understanding  all  the  places  about  women  and  children 
and  the  relations  implied.  The  master  had  scolded  her 
in  class  because  she  did  not  know  her  geography  lesson ; 
and  then  she  had  cried  for  some  reason,  though  her  fever 
was  too  high  for  copious  weeping.  And  at  night  after 
school  she  had  told  Rob  she  must  marry  him ;  and  then 
Sam  had  come  up  between  them,  and  now  she  was  here 
in  her  cold  room,  shivering  in  a  bed-quilt  by  the  stove 
pipe. 

The  impinging  cold  was  having  effect,  benumbing  her 
body  and  her  senses.  She  went  over  to  the  table  and 
picked  up  the  untasted  bread,  bringing  it  back  to  the 
stove-pipe,  and  gnawing  it  stupidly  as  she  sat  there.  Her 
long  red  braids  hung  neglected  to  the  floor.  The  wan 
ness  was  congealed  in  her  face,  the  fear  congealed  in  her 
pleading  wide  eyes. 


22  Quicksand 

Minute  dragged  after  minute  till  three  hours  had  told 
themselves  off.  Her  mother  had  left  her  work  in  the 
kitchen,  and  gone  to  the  front  part  of  the  house.  Perhaps 
was  consulting  with  her  father.  Could  she  ever  look  her 
father  in  the  face  ?  The  miserable  girl  sat  on,  careless 
of  the  cold  or  her  hunger.  Some  time  her  mother  would 
come,  pronouncing  her  sentence  of  banishment.  Or 
would  it  be  her  father's  awful  voice  ?  more  terrible  than 
God's  voice  at  judgment,  because  she  so  passionately 
loved  her  father.  Would  he  be  sorry  when  she  was  burn 
ing  in  hell,  with  the  smothering  monsters  to  torture  her  ? 
Alas !  her  father's  sorrow  was  greatest  torture  of  all.  But 
she  could  not  weep  now  to  think  of  it.  She  could  only 
sit  waiting  and  waiting,  with  the  winter  sunlight  quivering 
pale  on  the  wall  and  the  long  afternoon  slowly  descending. 


Book  II 

Hubert 


I. 

THE  very  earliest  picture  in  Hubert  Hinckley's 
memory  —  he  often  thought  of  it  afterward  —  was 
that  of  a  snake  hanging  down  from  the  beams  of 
the  ceiling  to  the  cellar, —  hanging  and  swinging  like  a 
rope.  He  had  probably  gone  down  to  get  some  honey. 
He  was  very  fond  of  eating  it  in  the  comb,  but  the  pict 
ure  in  his  memory  began  without  any  thought  of  the 
honey.  There  were  the  whitewashed  stone  walls,  the  dim 
light  coming  in  from  high  windows,  there  was  the  cool 
dampness  of  the  even  ground  floor.  Vaguely  he  imag 
ined  that  he  had  seen  the  hanging  shelves  where  the  milk 
was  kept  away  from  the  mice ;  but  of  this  he  could  never 
make  sure,  he  saw  them  so  many  times  afterward. 
Only  one  thing  was  indelible  in  his  sight  after  the  walls 
and  the  light :  that  was  the  snake  hanging  down,  darting 
its  red  tongue  out  at  him,  hanging  and  coiling  like  a  rope. 
Of  course,  he  had  turned  and  fled  up  the  stairs,  screaming 
and  choking  with  fright.  He  had  thought  that  his  sister 
Mary  was  behind  him,  but  someway  she  must  have  been 
delayed ;  for  his  next  impression  was  the  figure  of  a  tall 
woman  standing  in  the  hallway  above.  That  must  have 
been  his  mother,  but  there  the  memory-picture  ended. 
For  years  after  he  was  afraid  to  go  alone  down  the  cellar, 
even  when  he  had  grown  a  big  boy,  fourteen  or  fifteen 
years  .old. 

His  next  memory  was  not  of  a  particular  time,  but  more 
a  general  impression.  He  used  to  get  into  the  wagon  in 
the  yard  and  lie  on  his  back  in  the  evening,  to  watch  the 
soft  lights  of  the  sky  as  they  changed  with  the  oncoming 
twilight.  Sam  or  his  father  were  always  somewhere  near 
about,  doing  the  evening  chores.  So  at  that  time  he  was 
not  afraid,  though  he  had  all  the  sense  of  being  lonely. 


26  Qu  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

Sometimes  the  clouds  would  float  over,  gay  with  color, — 
red  or  violet  or  yellow.  But  he  liked  the  clear  sky  the 
best,  changing  from  the  dark  blue  to  purple,  and  often 
glowing  up  from  the  horizon  with  the  clear  yellow-green 
that  he  imagined  was  a  reflection  of  the  light  down  from 
heaven,  where  God  sat  all  day  with  the  angels.  There 
were  swallows,  too,  to  watch,  when  his  restless  attention 
wearied  of  the  sky.  The  swallows  he  was  never  tired  of 
watching  as  they  went  skimming  and  darting  above  him. 
Sam  said  they  were  catching  mosquitoes,  and  Sam  in 
those  days  knew  everything.  An  unfathomed  depth  of 
knowledge  was  Sam  to  the  child's  steady-flowing  ques 
tions.  To  be  sure,  Sam  would  not  always  answer,  when 
asked;  but  that  was  because  he  liked  teasing.  Hubert 
liked  teasing  as  well,  and  often  pestered  Sam  till  the  end 
came  in  a  scuffle  and  his  own  crying.  From  the  wagon, 
too,  watching  the  sky,  sometimes  he  saw  night-hawks  fly 
over.  He  always  looked  for  the  white  spots  under  their 
wings,  and  did  not  give  notice  to  their  graceful  sailing. 
He  liked  to  hear  their  sharp  cry,  and  would  rise  up  and 
quiver  with  delight  if  one  dived  down  when  it  was  near 
him,  with  the  strong,  hoarse,  whirring  sound.  At  first  he 
had  been  afraid,  when  they  did  this ;  but  Sam,  the  uni 
versal  encyclopaedia,  being  appealed  to,  said  that  they, 
too,  were  diving  for  mosquitoes. 

In  the  day-time  he  used  to  go  wafking  in  company  with 
his  big  dog  Towser,  or  Towse,  as  he  was  commonly 
called.  Towse  was  a  black  Newfoundland,  and  just 
about  Hubert's  age.  It  seemed  funny  that  he  should 
have  grown  up  so  much  quicker ;  for  they  spoke  of  him 
as  an  old  dog  now,  and  really  he  seemed  to  know  every 
thing.  Hubert  used  to  tease  him  sometimes,  tying  things 
to  his  head  or  his  tail ;  but  he  always  recognised  authority, 
and  desisted  with  remarkable  promptness  when  the  dog 


Qjuicksand  27 

uttered  a  warning  growl.  Towse  used  to  go  with  Hubert 
in  his  walks,  sometimes  to  the  edge  of  the  twelve  acres 
or  to  the  oak-tree  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  These  were 
great  distances  in  those  days,  though  afterward  they 
came  to  be  but  trifles. 

If  he  should  tire  of  Towse,  he  could  play  with  Mary 
and  her  dolls.  Mary  was  eleven  years  old,  and  read 
in  the  Fourth  Reader  in  school.  Libbie  read  in  the 
Fifth  Reader,  and  studied  history ;  but  someway  he  liked 
Mary  best.  Hubert  had  a  doll,  too,  to  play  with, —  a  rag 
doll,  Rosie  by  name.  Mary  had  dolls  with  china  heads ; 
but  he  could  not  have  a  china  doll  because  at  intervals 
he  outgrew  dolls,  and  then  he  would  throw  Rosie  up  a 
tree,  or  in  winter  tie  a  string  to  her  ankle  and  drag  her 
naked  through  the  snowdrifts.  In  time  he  revolted  from 
this  manliness,  and  returned  to  tears  and  meditation, 
hunting  up  the  wretched  Rosie  again,  and  healing  her  as 
best  he  could  from  her  wounds.  All  the  same  it  was 
thought  best  to  keep  Rosie  a  rag  doll ;  and  rag  she  re 
mained  till  he  was  twelve,  altogether  too  big  for  dolls  of 
any  kind. 

Mary  used  to  sing  at  her  playing, —  just  sing  quietly  all 
the  day  long.  Mary  had  brown  eyes  and  brown  hair, 
and  skipped  about  with  the  daintiest  lightness.  They 
used  to  play  at  housekeeping  together,  and  Hubert  would 
be  the  father  of  the  family.  Mary  would  let  him  play 
with  her  dolls  so  long  as  his  manly  fit  was  not  on,  and 
the  neighbourhood  and  family  complications  they  got  into 
would  make  whole  libraries  of  novels  and  stories.  Mary 
liked  best  to  place  all  these  doll  romances  back  in  Tarn- 
worth  in  New  Hampshire,  when  their  sister  Adelaide  was 
alive.  Hubert  did  not  remember  Adelaide,  for  he  was 
born  on  the  day  that  she  died ;  but  he  liked  to  be  told 
about  her  goodness,  and  Mary  was  never  tired  of  the  sub- 


28  Qjuicksand 

ject  till  one  day  Libbie  said  to  them  solemnly  that  she 
was  sure  their  mother  did  not  like  them  to  speak  of  these 
subjects.  She  felt  so  sorry  for  Adelaide;  and  the  chil 
dren  were  thoughtful  for  their  mother,  and  spoke  only  in 
secret  after  that. 

Libbie  was  fifteen  years  old,  almost  one  of  the  big 
girls  at  school.  Indeed,  as  he  afterward  remembered, 
she  must  have  been  very  unfortunate,  for,  coming  as  she 
did,  between  the  two  sets,  she  was  claimed  and  petted  by 
neither.  Her  tastes  were  in  advance  of  those  of  the  little 
girls ;  and,  when  she  wearied  of  their  prattle,  and  went  off 
to  see  the  larger  set,  they  called  her  "  Libbie  the  Lady," 
and  were  spiteful  and  disagreeable  generally.  Then  the 
large  girls  would  turn  upon  her.  "  Why  don't  you  go  and 
play,"  they  said,  "  instead  of  talking  of  dresses  and  the 
boys,  and  trying  to  do  crocheting  and  make  tidies  ? " 
So  when  they  went  arm  in  arm  to  take  a  walk,  or  in  the 
morning  to  meet  the  teacher,  Libbie  was  fortunate  if  she 
could  hang  on  to  the  end  of  the  row,  on  the  arm  of  some 
girl  who  herself  was  less  popular  than  some  others,  else 
she  would  not  be  left  on  the  end  to  feel  one  side  in  the 
cold  or  worried  by  the  ever-tagging  Libbie.  Now  there 
were  boys  at  school  of  Libbie's  age,  and  they  made  her 
welcome  when  she  played  with  them.  She  could  run 
well  and  even  throw  a  ball,  and  had  great  powers  of  man 
agement  in  prisoner's  base  ;  but,  alas  I  the  other  girls,  big 
and  little,  called  her  "tomboy,"  and  Sam  complained  to 
her  mother,  and  this  sport  was  put  a  stop  to. 

The  mother, —  what  was  she  like  to  Hubert  ?  how  did 
he  regard  her  ?  It  was  said  that  she'was  severe  sometimes, 
but  she  had  never  been  severe  with  him  that  he  could  re 
member.  She  used  to  take  him  on  her  lap,  and  look  at 
him  very  fondly.  Often  he  thought  he  saw  sadness  in  her 
eyes,  and  his  eyes  would  take  an  unconscious  sympathetic 


Qju  icksand  29 

meaning ;  but  then  she  would  grow  almost  gay,  and  tell 
some  story  from  the  Bible.  She  was  very  religious,  his 
mother;  but  in  those  days  she  was  not  gloomy,  except 
only  perhaps  when  at  church  or  when  the  minister  was 
visiting ! 

"  What  makes  your  hair  so  white  ?  "  he  once  asked  her, 
smoothing  her  cheek  with  his  hand. 

"  Age,"  she  replied  very  promptly.  "  Why,  I  am  forty- 
five  years  old."  But,  in  an  unknown  way,  he  felt  that  he 
had  saddened  her ;  and  he  tried  hard  to  be  good  for  all 
day. 

His  father  was  a  very  quiet  man,  and  gave  him  little 
attention,  though,  secretly,  he  loved  him  best  of  all.  He 
was  away  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  building  people 
beautiful  houses.  Sam  stayed  to  manage  the  farm.  His 
father  sometimes  worked  in  the  shop  back  of  the  house, 
making  the  prettiest  blocks  for  him  to  play  with, —  three- 
cornered  ones  and  square  ones  and  long, —  all  kinds,  in 
deed,  that  he  needed.  Then  there  were  the  beautiful 
shavings,  curling  precisely  like  his  hair,  and  precisely, 
too,  of  the  color.  His  eyes  were  black,  after  his  mother, 
the  neighbours  said ;  but  his  hair  was  the  colour  of  the 
shavings,  and  hanging  down  in  curls  just  like  them. 

He  used  to  wish  often  that  his  father  would  let  him 
help  more,  hand  up  the  tools  that  were  needed,  and  hold 
the  nails  in  his  apron.  But  no,  his  father  was  a  sad  man, 
and  liked  to  work  alone  better.  "  Run  away  and  play 
now,  Hubert ;  and  here  are  some  blocks  to  carry  with 
you." 

In  his  heart  the  child  was  deeply  hurt,  but  he  did  not 
let  any  one  see  his  chin  quiver. 

After  Sam,  that  was  all  of  his  family ;  and  at  five  he 
began  to  go  to  school. 


II. 

IT  was  before  he  had  begun  to  go  to  school  regularly 
that  a  little  incident  occurred  that  he  often  thought  of 
afterward,  regarding  it  as  prophetic  of  his  life.  The 
entire  family  were  on  their  way  to  the  school-house : 
it  was  on  some  gala  occasion,  probably  "  last  day  of 
school."  He  remembered  he  was  very  newly  dressed, 
and  walking  along  quite  important,  trying  to  take  strides 
like  his  father.  When  they  came  to  the  bridge  that 
crosses  the  creek,  the  hot  planks  burned  his  bare  feet ;  for 
the  summer  sun  had  been  beating  down  fiercely.  "  What 
are  you  doing,  Hubert  ? "  called  his  mother,  looking  back 
to  inquire  why  he  did  not  follow.  He  was  down  on  his 
hands  and  knees,  blowing  on  the  bridge  to  cool  it.  They 
teased  him  about  it  for  months  afterward ;  and  the  thought 
of  it  always  gave  him  shame,  even  after  he  had  grown  up 
a  man. 

The  school-house  sat  at  the  meeting  of  three  roads,  so 
that  there  was  a  triangle  of  green  turf  out  in  front,  sur 
rounded  by  the  three  dusty  roadways.  This  always 
seemed  curious  to  him.  He  wondered  if  it  grew  that  way 
or  if  some  one  had  made  it.  Across  the  triangle,  over  a 
rail  fence,  was  a  little,  deserted  house  in  a  cherry  orchard. 
The  big  girls  used  to  go  over  to  the  house  at  noon-times 
until  one  day  the  teacher  forbade  it,  and  that  gave  the 
place  great  mystery  to  him.  The  big  girls  always  filled 
him  with  strange,  awesome  feelings,  there  was  such  a  vast 
height  of  calico  to  them  before  the  real  girl  began.  One 
girl  especially  awed  him.  She  was  even  bigger  than  the 
others.  She  had  red  hair,  and  they  called  her  Bessie; 
and  she  had  heights  and  heights  of  dotted  delaine  skirt 
for  pedestal.  He  never  forgot  that  delaine.  The  ground 
was  dull  greenish-black,  and  the  dots  sprinkled  sparsely 


Qjiicksand  31 

upon  it  had  the  colour  and  the  markings  of  peach-stones 
with  a  little  blue  checkered  space  in  the  centre. 

His  seat  was  away  up  in  front  of  the  girls,  right  under 
the  eye  of  the  teacher.  The  teacher  had  her  hair  ar 
ranged  very  prettily,  and  wore  earrings.  She  always  car 
ried  a  lead-pencil,  and  wore  a  white  apron  with  crocheted 
edging  on  the  pockets.  She  was  very  kind  to  him,  al 
ways  asking  him  in  the  gentlest  way  to  read ;  and  some 
times  when  his  seat-mate,  Johnnie  Murphy,  sat  with  his 
arm  around  his  neck,  choking  him  till  he  was  red  in  the 
face,  she  spoke  to  Johnnie  reprovingly,  and  told  him  to 
lean  on  himself. 

Hubert  could  easily  get  his  lessons.  He  was  always 
the  model  boy  of  his  class.  He  could  play,  too,  at  noon 
time  and  recess  and  when  the  teacher  let  them  out  early. 
There  was  no  more  spirited  and  prancing  horse  among  the 
boys  than  he.  He  could  prance  and  curvet  and  whinny 
and  bite  at  his  mate  in  the  harness.  He  would  gnaw  at 
a  post  when  hitched  to  it,  and,  alas  1  he  could  balk  or  run 
away  if  he  chose  to ;  but  usually  he  preferred  a  long 
swinging  gait  around  and  around  the  green  triangle  or 
down  the  road  as  far  as  the  bridge.  Teacher  did  not 
allow  them  to  go  farther,  though  occasionally  some  of  the 
larger  boys  disobeyed. 

Three  terms  a  year  he  went  to  school,  summer  and  fall 
and  winter.  He  used  to  like  the  winter  as  well  as  any, 
for  he  could  run  all  the  way  on  the  snowdrifts.  They 
lifted  him  high  up  where  he  could  see  the  white  fields, 
and  sometimes  they  would  take  him  over  the  fences. 
Other  boys,  as  they  grew  large  enough  to  help  at  home, 
were  kept  out  during  the  summer  and  fall  terms ;  but 
Hubert's  mother  wanted  him  to  be  a  minister,  and  so  he 
was  allowed  to  keep  on  and  encouraged  to  do  studying 
outside,  until  he  was  in  the  most  advanced  classes  while 


32  Qjuicksand 

yet  but  a  boy  of  ten.  He  sat  along  with  the  big  boys  and 
girls  now,  and  had  as  advanced  books  as  they.  He  usu 
ally  had  his  lessons  much  better,  and  was  petted  and 
praised  by  the  teacher.  At  spelling-school  he  stood  up 
with  the  longest,  and  sometimes  he  used  to  speak  pieces 
and  act  in  the  dialogues  till  his  fame  had  traversed  five 
districts.  There  were  periods  of  depression,  however. 
Sometimes  the  geography  lesson  was  too  long  or  another 
boy  would  want  to  study  with  him,  and  bother.  Oftener 
he  would  get  puzzled  with  the  arithmetic,  and  especially 
he  would  get  confused  in  partial  payments.  Of  course, 
he  did  not  understand  that  they  were  about  the  borrowing 
and  lending  of  money.  No  one  had  ever  told  him  that. 
He  had  learned  to  say  the  rule  from  the  book :  "  When 
Partial  Payments  have  been  made,  apply  the  payment  in 
the  first  place  to  discharge  the  interest  then  due,"  and  so 
on  to  the  foot  of  the  page.  Then  Libbie,  who  was  very 
good  at  figures,  would  show  him  how  to  do  the  first  sum ; 
and  the  others  he  did  precisely  like  that  one,  except 
where  a  little  difference  came  in,  and  Libbie  would  tell 
him  about  that  beforehand.  Now  all  of  this  did  very 
well  until  he  came  to  explain  at  the  board.  Then,  per 
haps,  the  teacher  would  ask  him  a  question ;  and  soon  he 
was  in  such  a  muddle  that  he  had  to  take  his  seat,  crying, 
ashamed  to  lift  his  head  up  all  day,  sulking  through  the 
noontime  and  at  recess,  and  often  refusing  his  lunch,  or, 
if  accepting  it  from  the  maternal  Libbie,  eating  it  down 
behind  the  desk,  mingled  with  dust  and  tears. 

So  life  went  on  until  he  was  eleven  years  old,  and  then 
Hiram  Stubbs  came  into  his  life. 


Ill, 

JUST  who  Hiram  Stubbs  was  and  why  he  should 
come  there  to  live,  Hubert  did  not  at  the  time  ques 
tion.  It  seemed  quite  natural  that  he  should  come. 
Everything  about  Hiram  always  seemed  natural.  He 
said  he  had  grown  tired  of  roaming  around,  and  wanted 
to  stay  where  he  could  see  the  same  faces.  He  seemed 
to  be  acquainted  with  the  rest  of  the  family.  That  was' 
probably  back  in  New  Hampshire  where  they  came  from. 
At  all  events,  he  bought  a  little  tract  of  land  adjoining 
theirs,  lying  down  next  the  river ;  and  there  he  built  him 
self  a  log  house,  and  seemed  to  be  the  happiest  man  in 
the  country. 

Hubert  used  to  go  over  to  help  him  build  his  house, 
though  he  had  to  miss  his  breakfast  to  do  it.  It  came 
about  in  this  way.  Hubert  had  learned  from  experience 
that,  if  he  did  not  eat  any  breakfast,  he  was  considered  too 
sick  to  go  to  school,  and  so  kept  at  home  for  the  day.  "  I 
don't  want  any  breakfast,"  he  would  say.  "  You  must 
stay  at  home  and  keep  quiet,"  his  mother  would  answer; 
and  then,  when  she  was  busy  with  her  work,  he  would  slip 
off  to  help  Hiram  build  his  house. 

"  Hullo,  Captain,"  Hiram  would  shout  when  he  saw  him 
coming.  "  Give  us  your  hand,  my  heartie."  Hiram  had 
such  a  warm,  big  hand ;  and  he  always  insisted  on  shak 
ing,  and  always  addressed  Hubert  as  Captain  and  gave 
him  the  proper  salute.  Once  he  looked  at  him  sharply. 
"  Ain't  you  hungry  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

Hubert  protested  he  was  not ;  but  Hiram  went  over  to 
his  lunch-pail,  and  brought  him  two  big  pieces  of  bread 
with  butter  and  honey  spread  between.  "  Eat  that,"  was 
all  that  he  said;  and  the  "  Captain  "  was  bound  to  obey 
ship's  orders,  so  that  this  came  to  be  a  regular  custom, 
and  Hubert  did  not  miss  his  breakfast  so  sadly. 


34  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

It  was  a  big  day  when  the  new  house  was  finished. 
Sam  had  helped  Hiram  with  the  heavy  parts,  and  Hubert's 
father  had  done  the  doors  and  the  windows.  Hiram  had 
given  work  in  exchange  during  harvest.  There  was  a 
roomy  log  part  in  front  and  a  lean-to  of  boards  for  the 
kitchen.  There  were  to  be  a  stable  and  chicken  house  in 
the  back  part  of  the  yard.  Hubert  used  to  go  over  and 
look  at  the  ground  curiously.  Then  Hiram  began  to 
move  in  his  furniture.  There  was  a  sea  chest,  and  the 
wonders  that  came  out  of  it ;  curious  blankets  to  put  on 
the  bed  and  fans  to  hang  on  the  wall ;  and  pieces  of  coral 
and  shells  and  all  sorts  of  odd  boxes  and  playthings. 
Then  new  dishes  were  bought,  of  shining  tin  and  blue 
china,  with  always  a  piece  extra  for  the  captain ;  and  a 
cupboard  was  built,  and  a  table  was  made  and  a  little 
stove  set  up.  There  was  a  fireplace  in  the  saloon,  as 
Hiram  called  it.  His  mother  did  not  like  the  word 
"  saloon."  She  said  it  was  the  entrance  to  hell ;  but 
Hiram  only  laughed,  and  would  not  change  it,  though 
Hubert  was  forbidden  the  word.  It  was  a  nice  room,  any 
way,  he  thought ;  and,  if  it  was  like  the  entrance  to  hell, 
why  that  place  must  be  different  from  what  he  had  sup 
posed  it  to  be.  Hiram,  he  had  been  told,  was  an  atheist ; 
and  his  mother  did  not  like  him  to  go  to  his  house. 
Hubert  had  never  seen  anything  of  it,  however,  when  he 
had  been  around ;  but  perhaps  it  was  true  that  Hiram  did 
not  believe  in  a  God,  for  he  never  swore  as  Sam  did  when 
he  was  milking. 

But  best  of  all,  the  most  wonderful,  was  the  river, —  the 
great  Mississippi  that  was  forbidden.  Hiram  had  built 
himself  a  boat  the  first  winter,  —  bought  the  lumber  and 
actually  built  it, —  a  great,  big  skiff  with  a  sail.  Now  his 
mother  had  said  Hubert  should  never  go  into  it ;  but  after 
a  deal  of  wheedling  on  Hiram's  part,  and  pledging  his 


Qja  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  35 

word  that  no  harm  should  come  to  the  boy,  the  fond 
mother  had  yielded  at  last.  She  may  have  been  influ 
enced  by  the  boy's  frailty,  for  at  that  time  it  was  thought 
he  would  die.  The  doctor  said  he  needed  the  air  and  ex 
ercise  ;  and  most  of  all  he  recommended  rowing  and  swim 
ming,  as  they  would  develop  his  lungs.  So  it  was  that, 
after  the  boat  had  proved  itself  safe,  the  eager  boy  was 
allowed  to  enter  it  as  he  chose,  provided  Hiram  was  al 
ways  with  him. 

And  there  was  never  any  trouble  about  that.  Hiram 
was  a  shiftless  farmer,  the  neighbours  said ;  but,  oh,  the 
long  rides  in  the  boat,  rowing  or  sailing  over  the  level 
shining  water  or  floating  down  swift  with  the  stream  I 
And  what  a  wonderful  sailor  was  Hiram,  like  a  picture  of 
Neptune  in  the  reader !  He  made  himself  a  swimming 
suit  of  flannel,  also  a  little  one  for  Hubert ;  and  with  noth 
ing  but  these  on  in  their  boat  they  were  happy  as  two  fishes 
in  spring-time.  Hiram  would  stand  in  the  boat,  and  guide 
it  with  the  oar  from  the  stern.  He  taught  Hubert  not  to 
fear  the  rocking,  and  later  he  would  tip  the  boat  over  after 
Hubert  had  learned  well  to  swim.  Hiram  would  dive 
and  swim  under  the  water,  and  do  all  sorts  of  antics  where 
the  current  was  slow.  He  showed  Hubert  how  the  por 
poises  leap,  and  told  how  the  flying  fish  sailed.  Long  won 
derful  stories  of  the  deep  he  told,  as  he  stood  in  the  boat, 
with  singing  and  shouting  and  laughing.  How  strong  and 
handsome  Hiram  was  !  The  boy  wondered  if  he  should 
ever  become  so.  His  muscles  were  as  hard  and  strong  as 
iron,  and  as  cold,  too,  when  Hubert  felt  them  from  the 
water.  At  first  he  used  to  ride  on  the  back  of  the  man 
while  he  was  swimming,  one  arm  clasped  around  his  fore 
head.  Then  he  learned  to  swim  for  himself,  and  to  roll 
about  and  gambol  in  the  water. 

How  he   loved    Hiram   at   that   time  1     His   affection 


36  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

was  quivering  whenever  he  approached  him.  His  mother 
watched  the  friendship  with  growing  disfavor.  Her  darl 
ing  was  being  won  from  her  so  early  1  But,  then,  there 
was  the  doctor's  warning ;  and  she  bore  with  the  wrong 
awhile  longer. 


IV. 

THE  fall  that  Hubert  was  thirteen  Sam  began 
taking  the  three  children  to  Fort  Madison  to  the 
academy,  driving  with  them  the  three  miles  every 
morning  and  coming  in  for  them  at  night.  By  this  time 
Mary  was  quite  a  young  lady ;  and  Libbie  was  almost  too 
old  to  go  to  school,  and  feeling  ashamed  of  her  studies. 
They  should  have  gone  a  year  before,  or  Libbie  two  or 
three  years  ago ;  but  at  that  time  Hubert  was  too  young 
or  his  health  did  not  seem  strong  enough.  Libbie  had 
wanted  to  board  in  the  town,  and  even  now  suggested 
that  they  rent  two  rooms  and  keep  house ;  but  the 
mother  was  not  willing  to  trust  her  daughter  alone.  No 
telling  what  might  come  to  her  there  in  the  town.  She 
had  heard  there  was  a  very  low  class  in  Fort  Madison, — 
the  river  gang  that  went  to  the  saloon.  It  was  true  that 
the  doctor's  family  offered  to  take  Libbie  to  board,  and 
they  were  church-going  people ;  but  no,  Mrs.  Hinckley 
was  not  willing.  She  thought  of  it  long  before  she  de 
cided.  She  took  too  good  care  of  her  children  to  let 
them  go  from  her.  Besides,  Libbie  should  learn  to  think 
of  others  than  herself,  and  wait  for  Mary  and  Hubert. 

In  his  classes  Hubert  did  not  need  any  waiting.  He 
and  Mary  and  Libbie  took  the  same  work.  This  was 
a  saving  of  books,  and  it  was  company  for  them  to  talk 
everything  over.  Mrs.  Hinckley  had  gone  in  with  them 
on  the  first  day,  and  made  the  arrangements  with  the 
teacher.  Libbie  had  winced  every  time  that  her  mother 
spoke  of  them  as  the  children.  Why  should  they  not  do 
these  things  themselves?  She  looked  about  among  the 
pupils,  and  pretended  not  to  hear  her  mother.  All  of 
the  girls  were  younger  than  she,  and  most  of  them  were 
more  stylishly  dressed.  But  she  would  soon  learn  to  do 


38  Qja  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

over  her  own  dresses.  She  was  clever  enough  with  her 
fingers.  Libbie  was  a  handsome  girl  then,  her  features 
a  little  heavy,  perhaps,  but  with  fine  eyes  and  beautiful 
black  hair.  She  was  tall,  too,  and  erect,  and  of  good 
figure.  Indeed,  she  wished  she  were  not  so  fully  de 
veloped.  She  looked  more  like  one  of  the  teachers. 
Mary  was  small,  brown,  and  quiet.  Nobody  ever  gave 
much  attention  to  Mary. 

The  eagerness  of  the  lessons  began,  and  there  were 
great  discussions  in  the  kitchen  in  the  evenings.  Hubert 
had  the  best  memory,  and  would  always  chip  in  with  the 
answer  before  Libbie  could  get  time  to  think.  They 
used  to  make  Mary  the  teacher,  and  get  her  to  give  out 
the  lessons,  for  the  main  reason  because  she  was  more 
patient,  and  not  partial  to  either  pupil.  Then,  too,  the 
others  wanted  to  see  if  they  knew  it,  or  Libbie  wanted  to 
see  if  she  knew  it,  and  Mary  wanted  to  see  if  Hubert  did. 
At  first  Sam  tried  to  be  the  teacher,  and  Hiram  proffered 
his  assistance ;  but  studies  had  changed  too  much  since 
their  days  of  going  to  school.  And  as  for  the  mother, 
who  had  once  been  a  schoolmistress,  she  hardly  knew 
what  they  were  talking  about.  She  could  only  watch,  and 
smile  proudly  when  Hubert  gave  some  brilliant  rehearsal 
or  Libbie  wrinkled  up  her  forehead,  and  untangled  a 
difficult  problem. 

Hiram  was  usually  sitting  near.  In  reality,  he  was  sit 
ting  near  Mary,  though  nobody  noticed  that.  Hiram 
knew  every  curve  of  the  patient  brown  head.  He  knew 
the  pointed  chin,  too,  and  sweet  mouth ;  but  best  of  all 
he  knew  the  eyes,  level  and  beaming  brown  lights  under 
the  broad,  peaceful  brow.  Mrs.  Hinckley  took  care  that 
Hiram  did  not  give  too  much  attention  to  Hubert,  but 
the  thought  that  he  was  giving  attention  to  Mary  had  not 
entered  her  mind. 


Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  39 

The  studying  was  sadly  interrupted  after  the  Christmas 
holidays  by  a  long  series  of  protracted  meetings  held  in 
the  district  school-house,  not  more  than  half  a  mile  away. 
They  had  some  famous  revivalist  preachers  that  winter, 
and  people  even  drove  out  from  Fort  Madison  and  got 
converted.  Now  there  had  been  a  standing  religious 
war  in  the  Hinckley  family  ever  since  Hubert  could 
remember  on  the  question  of  whether  baptism  was  neces 
sary  for  salvation.  Mrs.  Hinckley  insisted  that  it  was. 
She  had  been  converted  through  a  vision  in  a  dream. 
She  had  clearly  seen  John  the  Baptist  immersing  the 
figure  of  Christ.  But  Mr.  Hinckley  would  not  accept  the 
vision  as  divine  revelation.  He  argued  with  the  Script 
ure  in  his  hand,  and  sat  there  stupid  and  obstinate  till 
Mrs.  Hinckley  went  almost  distracted.  It  seemed  to 
Hubert  a  terrible  struggle  at  first,  when  he  reflected  that 
his  father  might  go  to  hell  if  he  was  not  convinced ;  but 
gradually  he  became  used  to  the  contest,  and  went  about 
as  grown  people  will,  scarcely  realising  the  import  of  the 
doctrines,  and  interested  only  in  which  is  the  more  skilful 
in  argument. 

There  was  still  another  point  of  difference  quite  as 
essential  as  that  of  baptism.  This  was  the  necessity  for 
conversion  from  sin  after  the  mind  has  reached  the  age 
of  reason.  Mrs.  Hinckley  had  been  converted  during  a 
revival  when  Hubert  was  but  a  baby.  That  was  the  first 
year  they  were  in  Iowa.  Mr.  Hinckley  had  been  born 
and  bred  in  the  church,  as  his  wife  had  been,  and  both 
were  confirmed  at  the  proper  time,  and  this,  he  main 
tained,  was  sufficient  for  salvation;  but  his  wife  held 
as  strongly  that  it  was  not.  Her  husband  would  be  for 
ever  damned  if  he  did  not  experience  conversion,  and 
after  conversion  be  baptised,  as  everybody  here  in  Iowa 
had  been. 


40  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

Now,  of  course,  these  revivalist  preachers  believed  in 
conversion ;  and  most  of  them  thought  baptism  essential. 
It  was  necessary  that  the  children  attend  the  meetings, 
even  if  their  studies  be  neglected.  Mr.  Hinckley  also 
was  willing.  He  usually  attended  himself.  It  gave  him 
new  material  for  argument  and  helped  pass  the  long 
winter  evenings.  Moreover,  he  was  a  just  man,  even  in 
his  own  obstinacy,  and  wished  his  children  to  decide  for 
themselves.  He  proposed  that  they  take  one  of  the  min 
isters  to  board ;  and  when  young  Mr.  Simmons  was 
chosen,  though  he  was  a  most  ardent  advocate  of  baptism, 
Mr.  Hinckley  was  first  to  make  him  welcome,  offering 
him  the  best  of  the  house.  Mr.  Simmons  was  a  tall  man, 
and  handsome.  He  had  a  red  beard  and  yellow  hair ; 
and  he  also  had  pale  blue  dreamy  eyes,  which  he  allowed 
benevolently  to  rest  upon  Libbie,  who  fluttered  about  in 
confusion,  while  quiet  Mary  served  him  with  what  he 
needed. 

Every  evening  the  family  walked  to  meeting.  Books 
were  put  away  for  the  time.  Indeed,  sometimes  Mary 
was  left  at  home  to  do  the  cooking ;  and  Hiram  used  to 
come  up  for  company,  as  Mary  was  afraid  to  stay  alone, 
with  all  this  talk  of  judgment-day  and  mercy-seat,  and 
the  "  vengeance  and  jealousy  of  God."  Hiram  would  not 
go  to  the  meetings,  but  only  laughed,  and  said  they  made 
him  wickeder  than  ever.  He  was  busy  making  traps. 
There  were  beavers  in  those  days  in  the  creeks,  and  Hiram 
coined  more  money  with  his  pelts  than  some  farmers  did 
with  their  grain  and  hogs.  Hubert  was  accustomed  to 
go  out  to  visit  the  traps  Saturdays,  though  he  trembled 
when  the  poor  beasts  were  killed,  and  secretly  hoped  they 
would  not  find  any  ensnared.  Hiram  had  taught  him  to 
skate,  too ;  and  this  was  great  sport  for  him, —  to  glide  over 
the  level  floor  of  the  creek  or  creep  out  to  the  edge  of 


Qjuicksand  41 

the  river.  Hiram  had  great  influence  over  him  in  those 
days ;  and  he  used  to  creep  up  softly  and  hug  him,  taking 
the  huge  yellow  head  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  him  on  the 
cheeks  and  eyes.  Hiram  would  laugh  at  him  for  this, 
and  joke  him  about  its  being  beneath  the  dignity  of  a 
captain ;  but  secretly  Hubert  felt  that  he  liked  it,  at 
least  he  only  pushed  him  away  when  his  embraces  were 
over-long  and  full  of  feeling. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  baptism,  Hiram  ? "  he  would  ask 
him  solemnly. 

"  Why,  no,  I  don't ;  but  that  doesn't  keep  it  from  be 
ing  true,"  the  man  would  answer  evasively. 

"  But,  Hiram,  you  believe  in  a  God,  don't  you,  and  in 
everlasting  punishment  for  sin  ?  " 

"  That's  two  questions,"  said  Hiram,  laughing.  "  Why 
do  you  care  what  I  believe  ?  Each  man  must  think  it 
out  for  himself." 

"  But  you  believe  in  a  God,"  the  boy  persisted,  half 
frightened  at  such  blasphemy  as  he  mentioned. 

"  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  it,  Captain.  That's  a  fact. 
I've  only  made  up  my  mind  to  this  :  that,  if  we  do  the  best 
we  can  in  this  world,  and  are  honest  and  charitable  with 
our  neighbours,  we  will  not  take  harm  from  what's  to  come. 
If  there  is  a  God  and  he  wanted  us  to  know,  I  guess 
he'd  tell  us.  Maybe  he  thinks  it  is  impertinent  that  men 
should  be  trying  to  run  his  affairs.  There,  now,  don't 
think  so  much  about  it,"  he  said  kindly.  "  There  is 
plenty  of  time  when  you  are  twenty.  They  are  making 
you  nervous  with  so  much  talk.  You  had  better  be 
thinking  of  skating."  •  That  was  all  Hiram  would  tell 
the  boy  about  religion  or  the  welfare  and  care  of  his  soul. 
But  he  told  him  many  things  about  his  body,  and  how  to 
nurture  and  care  for  it ;  and  he  explained  the  functions 
with  great  care, —  something  that  neither  father  nor 


42  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

mother  had  done,  and  for  which  the  boy  might  bless  him 
in  days  to  come. 

Night  after  night  they  went  regularly  into  the  strange 
life  of  the  school-house.  Hubert  would  sometimes  have 
stayed  home  with  Hiram  and  Mary,  only  his  mother  said, 
"  Come  1  "  and  he  did  not  know  disobedience. 

The  place  had  a  strange  fascination  for  him,  however ; 
and  he  did  not  need  any  urging.  The  gathering  of  the 
people  he  knew  under  ordinary,  practical  circumstances  ; 
then  silence,  with  the  yellow  glare  of  the  kerosene  lamps 
and  the  heads  of  all  bowed  in  prayer.  There  was  singing 
after  the  prayer ;  and  then  the  ministers  began  to  speak, 
the  eloquence  rolling  from  their  mouths,  and  the  congre 
gation  getting  excited,  with  sniffs  and  tears  at  the  stories 
and  low  groans  of  "  Amen "  from  the  deacons.  When 
the  ministers  had  finished  the  picture  of  the  hell  awaiting 
the  unconverted,  and  the  boy  could  smell  the  sulphurous 
fumes,  the  congregation  arose,  and  the  low,  droning  sing 
ing  began,  "  I  will  arise,  and  go  to  Jesus."  Meanwhile 
a  bench  was  placed  in  front  of  the  pulpit  desk, — "  a 
mourners'  bench,"  the  people  called  it ;  and  during  the 
singing  people  arose  and  went  up,  kneeling  at  the  bench 
and  praying  for  forgiveness  from  their  sins.  The  minis 
ters  were  all  kneeling  now,  each  praying  independently 
of  the  others.  Women  began  weeping  and  shouting. 
Groans  and  cries  were  on  every  hand.  His  mother  was 
up,  shouting  with  the  saved  ones,  praying  for  others  to 
come  to  redemption  ;  and  the  boy  knew  that  the  "  others  " 
meant  him  for  one, —  him  and  his  father  and  Mary.  Sam 
was  already  saved,  and  shouting  "  Glory  "  with  the  blessed 
ones.  Libbie  was  crying  on  her  knees,  rocking  back  and 
forth  in  her  agony,  calling  on  the  brothers  to  pray  for 
her.  Scores  of  those  he  knew  were  going  up  to  the 
bench,  and  women  were  coming  to  plead  with  him  among 


Qjuicksand  43 

others  who  were  doubtful.  The  frail  youth  with  wide, 
staring  eyes  sat  there,  vowing  he  would  not,  thinking  of 
Hiram  all  the  time,  saying,  "  I  won't,  I  won't,"  between 
his  teeth  that  were  clenched;  clutching  his  finger-nails 
into  the  bench  on  which  he  sat,  and  repeating  softly 
under  his  breath :  "  Hiram,  I  won't,  I  won't.  Go  away, 
don't  speak  to  me  to-night  1 " 

He  was  weak  and  exhausted  when  the  meeting  broke 
up  at  half-past  nine.  But  he  was  ready  to  go  back  the 
next  night  and  the  next  through  those  long  six  weeks, 
and  still  he  was  not  converted.  Neither  was  his  father 
or  Mary,  though  Mary  would  c'ry  her  eyes  out  in  trying  to 
be.  Hiram  sat  by  the  kitchen  stove,  working  on  his  traps 
and  telling  stories.  Mrs.  Hinckley  would  sometimes  give 
him  a  look  of  such  hate  or  righteous  indignation  that 
it  would  seem  to  have  annihilated  any  sensitive  body, 
but  it  did  not  pierce  the  thick  skin  of  the  sailor. 


V. 

HIRAM  STUBBS  had  various  peculiarities  of 
character  that  Mrs.  Hinckley  could  not  approve 
of.  One  was  his  liking  for  tramps, —  an  unnat 
ural,  if  not  a  criminal,  trait.  He  seemed  to  find  worth  in 
everybody,  something  to  like  or  to  study,  no  matter  how 
low  men  might  be, —  vagabonds  or  drunkards  or  thieves. 
Now  Mrs.  Hinckley  herself  felt  the  proper  orthodox  com 
passion  that  she  had  been  taught  in  her  church.  She  fed 
all  who  came  to  her  door,  and  gave  them  cast-off  clothing. 
We  are  commanded  to  give  to  the  poor,  and  no  one  ap 
preciated  duty  more  thoroughly  than  Mrs.  Hinckley.  But 
with  Hiram  Stubbs  it  was  different.  He  treated  all  men 
as  equals  with  himself.  He  asked  them  into  his  house, 
and  shared  his  living  with  them. 

A  travel-stained,  idle-looking  fellow  asked  at  the  door 
for  something  to  eat. 

"If  you  are  willing  to  put  up  with  my  fare,"  said 
Hiram,  "  come  in,  and  wait  till  dinner  is  ready.  I  have 
no  women-folk  about,  but  I  manage  to  pull  through  on 
my  own  cooking." 

The  tramp  was  often  abashed,  the  room  and  the  host 
looked  so  cleanly. 

"  Come  in,  man,  don't  be  afraid.  There  is  nothing  here 
that  will  hurt  you." 

"  I  am  dirty  with  sleeping  out,"  said  the  man. 

"  Well,  there's  plenty  of  soap  and  water  in  the  shed. 
How  would  you  like  a  hot  bath  ?  You  can  stay  over 
night,  and  wash  your  clothes,  if  you  like.  I  can  give 
you  some  things  for  a  change  while  you're  doing  them. 
Oh,  I  know  what  it  is  to  get  dirty  in  travelling.  I  have 
been  a  sailor  ten  years,  and  know  enough  of  roughing  it 
and  tramping.  Here,  do  you  think  these  overalls  will  fit 


Qjiicksand  45 

you  ?  If  they  are  a  little  big,  they  are  clean.  A  shirt 
doesn't  need  to  be  a  fit.  You  can  tuck  up  the  sleeves  if 
they're  too  long.  Come  right  back  into  the  shed.  You 
can  spruce  up  while  I'm  cooking  the  dinner. 

"Say,"  he  would  add  as  a  caution,  "perhaps  you'd 
better  throw  your  old  clothes  outside.  We'll  boil  them 
before  bringing  them  into  the  house.  There's  no  telling 
what  a  man  may  get  hold  of,  sleeping  out,  as  you  have  to 
do  when  you're  tramping.  I'll  bring  you  plenty  of  hot 
water." 

In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  traveller  would  be  glad  for 
a  bath  and  change  to  fresh  garments.  There  was  some 
thing  so  healthy  about  Hiram  that  it  made  all  long  to  be 
like  him.  If,  however,  the  man  refused  the  proffered 
soap  and  water,  there  was  no  offence  on  either  side.  He 
could  rest  and  wait  for  the  dinner,  though  he  hesitated  to 
sit  down  to  the  table,  feeling  unworthy  of  the  cleanliness 
of  white  cloth  and  neat,  simple  service.  Usually,  he  came 
in  from  the  shed,  his  face  aglow  with  recent  scrubbing, 
his  hair  parted  and  combed  carefully  down  with  glisten 
ing  smoothness. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  find  my  shoes  fit  you  ?  "  the  cheery 
Hiram  would  call  out.  "  Pull  up  your  chair  to  the  table. 
Help  yourself  to  meat  and  potatoes.  I  think  I  can  make 
coffee  now  as  good  as  any  woman  in  these  parts." 

As  they  ate,  they  talked  like  comrades. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  Mine  is  Hiram  Stubbs,"  he 
began.  "  Everybody  hereabouts  calls  me  Hiram.  Have 
you  been  tramping  it  far  this  summer  ?  It's  a  good  way 
to  see  the  country." 

When  they  pushed  back  from  the  table,  the  tobacco 
and  pipes  were  brought  out.  "There's  no  use  rushing 
off  to  work  after  eating,"  remarked  Hiram.  "  I  get  a 
little  lonesome  sometimes  by  myself,  and  am  glad  of  a 
fellow  to  talk  to." 


46  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

The  pipes  were  finished  in  time.  The  traveller  was 
often  a  good  story-teller,  and  freely  related  his  experi 
ences. 

"Now  I've  got  to  go  to  the  field,"  Hiram  would  say; 
"but  there's  no  need  of  you're  being  in  a  hurry.  Just 
make  yourself  at  home  in  the  cabin.  You  can  build  a 
fire  and  wash  your  clothes  if  you  like.  There  is  plenty 
of  room  for  you  to  stay  over  night.  I  always  keep  an 
extra  bed  for  strangers.  If  you  make  up  your  mind  to 
go  on,  just  sing  out  as  you  go  by  the  field.  You'll  see 
me  at  work  with  the  horses." 

It  was  a  new  sensation  for  the  tramp  to  be  left  thus, 
in  charge  of  a  strange  house,  with  neat  though  not  costly 
appointments.  He  often  looked  about  with  curiosity. 
It  was  comfortable,  though  there  was  little  that  was 
practicable  for  stealing.  Usually,  he  did  not  feel  in 
clined  to  steal  anything.  Often  he  would  say  he  would 
protect  the  place  with  his  life,  if  occasion  only  offered  it 
danger.  There  was  a  wonderful  charm  in  the  host.  Few 
people  would  be  willing  to  injure  him.  It  was  very  'com 
fortable  here.  Why  not  stay  over  night,  and  wash  up 
his  clothes,  as  suggested,  and  sleep  in  the  soft,  easy  bed  ? 

Perhaps,  as  the  evening  came  on  and  Hiram  drove  in 
from  the  field,  he  would  find  his  tramp  sawing  wood  or 
cooking  supper  over  the  stove  or  offering  to  help  with  the 
horses. 

Often  the  man  would  stay  for  a  week,  though  not  un 
less  he  helped  with  the  work.  An  idle  man  was  sure  to 
be  restless.  There  was  the  spirit  of  doing  in  the  place. 
The  very  first  winter  there  was  a  boy  who  stayed  through 
all  the  cold  months,  and  found  work  in  the  spring  at  a 
neighbour's.  "You  see  I  don't  need  to  hire  a  hand," 
said  Hiram,  "  and  your  work  pays  ten  times  for  your 
keeping." 


QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  47 

Occasionally  his  hospitality  was  abused.  He  was  in 
sulted  secretly  or  openly.  In  that  case  he  did  not  hesi 
tate  to  knock  the  man  down  or  give  him  a  needed 
thrashing.  "  I  am  not  one  to  bear  a  grudge,"  he  said 
afterward,  as  he  lightly  went  on  with  his  housekeeping 
duties.  "Get  up  and  wash  your  face  at  the  shed.  I 
think  we  need  say  no  more  about  the  matter  of  difference." 

Hiram  was  very  fond  of  gypsies.  This  also  made 
Mrs.  Hinckley  nervous.  He  would  go  down  and  visit 
their  camps  by  the  river,  and  often  sat  with  them  at  their 
fires,  listening,  and  joining  with  their  stories.  Always 
they  seemed  to  make  him  welcome,  accepting  him  as  one 
of  their  own  people.  It  was  as  if  he  possessed  some 
password  that  admitted  him  to  all  of  their  confidences. 
They  told  him  strange  tales  of  their  wanderings,  and  of 
their  beliefs  and  the  prophecies  that  were  given  to  them. 

Hubert  was  very  curious  about  these  dark  people,  who 
had  no  homes,  and  came  and  went  like  the  swallows. 
Where  were  they  when  they  were  not  here  ?  Why  did 
they  not  have  farms  like  other  people  ?  His  mother 
forbade  his  ever  going  down  to  a  gypsy  camp.  She  said 
there  were  wicked  men  there  who  stole  children  and 
carried  them  off.  It  always  seemed  strange  to  Hubert, 
especially  when  Hiram  was  friends  with  them.  But,  then, 
Hiram  was  friends  with  everybody.  That  was  why  Mrs. 
Hinckley  did  not  altogether  like  him.  She  forbade  Hu 
bert's  ever  speaking  of  trie  gypsies,  nor  did  Hiram  en 
courage  him  to  do  so. 


VI. 

ONE  winter  passed,  and  another.  It  was  now  a 
warm  evening  in  spring.  Hiram  was  helping 
Sam  with  the  corn-planting.  Hubert  had  been 
dropping  for  the  two ;  but,  on  going  to  the  house  for  a  pail 
of  water,  his  mother  had  thought  he  was  tired,  and  had 
sent  out  Mary  instead.  There  were  only  two  more  rows. 

"  Just  one  round  for  one  of  us,"  said  Hiram.  "  Sam, 
you  go  in  to  your  chores ;  and  I  will  finish  the  business." 

So  it  came  that  Hiram  and  Mary  were  planting  corn  in 
the  early  May-time  evening. 

"  I  suppose  Hubert  dropped  on  ahead  ?  "  began  Mary. 

"  When  there  are  two  covering,  it  is  necessary ;  but,  now 
there  is  only  one  hoe,  you  may  as  well  keep  with  me  for 
company." 

"  Two  in  one  hill  and  three  in  the  next,"  said  Mary, 
counting.  Hiram  did  not  make  any  reply. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  to  talk  to  for  a  week  or  more,  have 
I,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  two  weeks  this  Saturday  evening." 

"  Oh,  so  long  ?  Well,  lots  of  things  have  happened ; 
but  Libbie  would  take  my  head  off  if  she  knew  I  was 
telling  you." 

"  Then  you'd  better  not  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  about  me,  too ;  and  I  wanted  to  ask  your 
advice." 

"  That's  different,"  said  Hiram,  calmly.  "  You're  put 
ting  six  grains  in  that  hill." 

Mary  stooped  over  confusedly.  She  wore  a  pink 
ruffled  sunbonnet,  and  it  had  slipped  back  from  her 
brown  head. 

"  Libbie  wants  me  to  marry  Minister  Simmons,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  pulling  the  sunbonnet  back  over  her  face. 


Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  49 

Hiram  straightened  up,  and  rested  his  arm  on  his  hoe. 

"  You  are  only  a  child,  Mary,"  he  gasped. 

"  I'm  almost  twenty,"  pouted  Mary. 

"  But  Mr.  Simmons  has  been  sparking  Libbie." 

"  Yes,  but  she  wants  to  marry  Oliver  Day.  She  has 
ever  since  he  was  converted.  You  know  it  was  really 
Libbie 's  work,  getting  him  into  the  church.  That  was  a 
year  ago  last  winter,  when  he  met  her  at  the  academy. 
He  would  have  kept  company  with  her  regularly  this 
winter,  only  mother  would  not  allow  it.  She  has  been 
encouraging  Mr.  Simmons.  You  know  Oliver  used  to 
smoke  and  drink,  too,  it  is  said,  when  he  was  studying 
law  with  Mr.  Mason." 

"  But,  he  gave  that  up  when  he  was  converted.  Libbie 
has  told  me  so  a  hundred  times." 

"  Yes,  but  mother  says  you  can  never  tell  when  he'll 
backslide.  She  says  you  can  never  trust  these  people 
who  are  converted  late  in  life.  Hadn't  we  better  go  on 
with  the  corn  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  you  and  Mr. 
Simmons,"  said  Hiram,  doggedly  resuming  his  covering. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Libbie  wants  to  marry  Oliver,  and  she 
knows  that  mother  is  set  on  her  taking  Minister  Simmons ; 
but  Libbie  thinks  that,  if  mother  could  get  Mr.  Simmons 
into  the  family,  she  might  be  content  to  let  her  have  her 
way  about  Oliver.  Everybody  is  down  on  Oliver,  though 
I  can't  see  exactly  why.  Father  don't  like  him,  and  Sam 
teases  Libbie  all  the  time  about  her  young  '  liar,'  and 
Hubert  goes  into  a  rage  whenever  he  comes  to  the  house." 

"  Well,  Hubert  isn't  going  to  marry  him,  is  he  ?  "  said 
Hiram ;  "  and  I  haven't  heard  of  his  proposing  to  Sam 
as  yet." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  row,  and  turned 
around,  looking  toward  the  house. 


50  Qjuicksand 

"  How  pretty  our  house  is,"  said  Mary,  "  with  the  sun 
shining  red  on  the  back  1  " 

It  was  a  large  stone  house,  built  into  the  hillside,  the 
front  facing  up  to  the  road,  and  the  back  giving  down 
toward  the  river  and  the  rich  lands  that  lay  between. 

"  My  little  cabin  is  in  the  shadow,"  said  Hiram,  softly, 
looking  off  under  the  hill. 

"  We  are  very  well  content  in  our  house  as  we  are," 
sighed  Mary.  "  I  don't,  see  why  any  one  should  marry 
and  go  away.  I  don't  believe  there's  another  family 
around  here  that  has  so  much  fun  as  we  do.  You  ought 
to  come  oftener  in  the  evening,  Hiram." 

"  I'm  busy  now,"  said  Hiram,  evasively.  "  But  how  is 
it  Libbie  is  going  to  get  you  to  marry  Mr.  Simmons,  when 
he  is  courting  her  ?  " 

"Well,  she  said  he  often  speaks  of  me  with  admira 
tion,"  faltered  Mary,  digging  into  the  soft  earth  with  the 
toe  of  her  calfskin  shoe. 

"  You  have  grown  very  stylish,  that's  a  fact,  with  the 
two  years  you've  spent  in  the  academy.  I  feel  like 
a  regular  booby  beside  you." 

"  Do  you  think  I've  improved,  Hiram  ? "  she  asked 
archly. 

"  Why,  I  guess  so ;  but  do  you  want  to  marry  the  ac 
commodating  Mr.  Simmons  ? " 

"  Don't  speak  of  him  that  way  1  He  is  very  nice,  and 
mother  says  he  will  rise  in  the  conference  yearly.  They 
think  everything  of  him  in  Fort  Madison." 

"It  is  certainly  a  good  match,"  said  Hiram,  " if  one 
cares  to  marry  for  position." 

"  I  don't  care  for  position  at  all,"  said  Mary,  proudly ; 
"  but  mother  has  set  her  heart  upon  it.  Do  you  know, 
she  wanted  to  make  a  minister  of  Sam  a  long  time  ago ; 
but  we  were  so  poor,  and  we  came  out  to  Iowa.  There 


Qjuicksand  51 

was  no  money  to  send  him  to  school.  Libbie  says  that  Sam 
got  cross  because  he  couldn't  marry  Lily  McDonald  back 
in  New  Hampshire.  I  don't  see  why  he  couldn't  have 
married  her  if  he  wanted  to;  for  I  can  remember  Lily 
McDonald,  and  she  used  to  think  a  lot  of  Sam.  He 
always  took  her  to  spelling-schools." 

"You  didn't  say  whether  you  wanted  to  marry  Mr. 
Simmons,"  said  Hiram,  returning  to  the  subject. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  begin  w^th  the  corn  ? "  answered 
Mary,  beginning  to  drop  on  ahead. 

"Wait  till  I  make  a  smooth  place,"  said  Hiram. 
"  This  outside  row  is  too  cloddy.  You  mustn't  drop  till 
I'm  ready." 

"  Libbie  wants  me  to  marry  him  very  much.  She  puts 
her  arms  around  my  neck,  and  teases  and  teases.  She 
says  Mr.  Simmons  is  like  an  angel  to  his  mother." 

"  Sit  down  on  that  stump  a  minute,  Mary,"  said 
Hiram,  almost  crowding  her  into  a  corner  of  the  rail 
fence,  and  throwing  himself  on  the  ground.  "  I  want  to 
talk  to  you,  little  Mary."  His  voice  was  mellow  and 
sweet.  It  was  strong,  and  yet  it  was  trembling. 

She  sat  down  obediently  on  the  stump.  Who  can  say 
of  what  she  was  thinking  ? 

Then  the  strong  voice  began  to  throb  again,  and  the 
blue  eyes  to  help  with  their  pleading. 

"  Mary,  do  you  think  you  could  marry  a  coarse  man 
like  me  ?  I  know  I  am  twelve  years  older  than  you.  I 
am  ignorant  and  have  no  academy  learning.  But  I  could 
take  care  of  a  wife.  I  could  build  a  new  house,  and  take 
care  of  you,  Mary.  I've  been  waiting  all  along  for  you 
to  grow  up.  I  guess  it  was  for  you  that  I  gave  up  the 
sea  and  came  out  here  to  Iowa.  You  were  a  little  girl 
when  I  left  you,  Mary ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  how  you 
cried,  and  how  you  looked  at  the  window.  I  guess  I 


52  Qjiicksand 

must  have  loved  you  always,  from  the  start,  ever  since 
you  were  a  little  baby  in  my  arms.  I  was  a  great,  big, 
lonesome  boy  then,  and  thinking  of  my  father,  who  was 
dead.  Do  you  think  you  could  love  me  back,  Mary  ? " 
His  voice  was  like  whispers  now.  His  breath  all  went 
into  his  speech ;  and  there  was  none  left  for  the  huge, 
panting  body.  He  reached  out  and  clutched  at  her  skirt ; 
and  his  eyes  were  set,  fixed  on  her  own,  which  were 
quivering  and  turning  away,  looking  at  the  pink  flush  on 
the  river,  the  wide  Mississippi,  so  peaceful,  settling  away 
south  to  the  sea. 

But  the  needle  will  turn  to  the  magnet,  and  her  eyes 
came  tremblingly  back.  "  I  guess  I  am  only  a  little  girl, 
Hiram ;  for  I  don't  know  what  love  like  yours  means.  I 
have  always  liked  you,  Hiram ;  but  you  make  me  a  little 
afraid  of  you  now.  But  I  won't  marry  Mr.  Simmons," 
she  went  on, —  "  at  least,  not  without  thinking  a  great  deal. 
I  guess  marriage  means  something  I  don't  know  anything 
about  yet.  Only  don't  think  you  are  old  or  coarse. 
Why,  I  have  known  you  always;  and  father  often  re 
marks  that  you  are  younger  than  any  of  us.  Mr.  Sim 
mons  is  as  old  as  you  are,  and  he  acts  as  old  as  father." 
Here,  not  thinking  of  anything  more  to  say,  there  was 
nothing  for  any  sensible  girl  to  do  but  to  begin  crying  at 
once,  which  she  did  with  violent  earnestness. 

The  lover  was  transformed  to  the  father.  "  Don't  cry, 
don't  cry,"  he  said  tenderly,  patting  her  head  with  his 
great  hand.  "  There,  I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you,  little 
Mary.  There,  cry  as  much  as  you  like." 

Mary  straightened  up  from  her  sobbing.  "I  think 
that's  Libbie  calling  to  supper  now,"  she  said,  listening.^ 
"  She'll  be  running  down  here  in  a  minute."  She  stepped 
out  in  full  view  of  the  field,  and  waved  her  sunbonnet  and 
answered.  Then  she  gave  Hiram  a  look  over  her  shoul- 


Quicksand  53 

der.  There  was  fright  and  there  was  laughter  in  her  eyes. 
"  Don't  tell  anybody  a  word  about  anything,"  she  whispered, 
"  because  they  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  Two  grains  and  then  three,"  she  said,  counting  aloud, 
while  Hiram  followed,  skilfully  covering,  and  wondering 
what  he  knew  about  women,  anyway,  except  that  the  tears 
lay  very  near  their  eyes. 


VII. 

THERE  had  been  a  strain  of  excitement  all  that 
quiet   Sunday   evening    in    the   Hinckley  family. 
Libbie  was  the  cause  of  it,  undoubtedly;  for  she 
stretched  her  nerves   at   highest   tension  simultaneously 
with  the  lacings  of  her  stays  in  making  ready  for  church 
in  the  morning.     The  Hinckleys  went  to  Fort  Madison  to 
church  now.     They  certainly  had   that   right,  since  the 
children  had  been  two  years  in  the  academy. 

They  patronized  the  home  services  in  the  school-house 
whenever  there  were  any  in  the  evening ;  and  Mrs.  Hinck 
ley  was  never  absent  from  prayer-meeting,  which  was 
held  on  Wednesday  nights.  Still,  the  neighbors  blamed 
them  for  being  "  stuck  up  "  because  they  did  not  come 
Sunday  mornings.  Mr.  Miller  was  good  enough  for  them ; 
and  why  not,  then,  for  the  Hinckleys  ?  Mrs.  Hinckley 
said  she  wanted  her  girls  to  hear  the  best.  "  Fudge  !  she 
wanted  them  to  marry  the  best,  and  one  of  her  fish  was 
Preacher  Simmons." 

When,  on  this  particular  Sunday,  Mrs.  Hinckley  had 
gone  up  to  congratulate  Mr.  Simmons  on  his  sermon, 
Libbie  walked  boldly  up  with  her,  and  had  a  quiet  word 
with  the  minister  while  her  mother  was  speaking  to  Dea 
con  Hackett.  Libbie  had  also  spoken  with  Oliver  Day, 
who  was  one  of  the  regular  congregation.  All  that  after 
noon  she  had  been  jubilantly  expectant,  walking  about 
the  house  with  her  head  up,  till  Sam  asked  her  if  she 
were  looking  for  a  comet.  Shortly  before  tea-time  she 
began  fussing  with  Mary's  hair,  drawing  it  back  with  pre 
cision,  and  doing  it  in  what  was  known  as  a  French  twist. 
"You  are  old  enough  to  have  your  hair  done  like  a 
lady,"  she  said,  "  not  combed  down  flat,  like  a  school 
girl.  And  how  brown  you  got  your  hands  yesterday, 


Qjiicksand  55 

out  dropping  corn  1  You  should  have  washed  them  in 
buttermilk  last  night." 

Minister  Simmons  just  then  drove  up  in  his  buggy. 

"  Why,  I  declare,  he's  come  to  tea  I "  she  said,  as  if  she 
might  be  feigning  a  surprise.  Here  in  Iowa  every  one 
said  supper  instead  of  tea.  "  Hubert,  run  out  and  help 
Mr.  Simmons  with  his  horse."  But  Mr.  Hinckley  had 
already  gone. 

They  were  all  glad  for  a  call  from  the  minister.  He 
was  usually  preaching  Sunday  night.  As  he  came  in,  he 
began  explaining  to  Mrs.  Hinckley  how  he  had  made  a 
special  arrangement  with  a  brother  for  a  substitute,  that 
he  might  enjoy  this  little  evening  with  them.  There  was 
not  the  slightest  doubt  in  Mrs.  Hinckley's  mind  but  that 
Libbie  had  said  yes  at  last  or  was  going  to  say  it  this 
evening,  and  the  engagement  would  be  announced  to  the 
family.  They  were  all  very  agreeable  at  table,  and  after 
supper  withdrew  to  the  parlor.  Then  Sam  and  Hubert 
went  out  to  do  the  milking.  Mrs.  Hinckley  soon  after 
found  it  necessary  to  attend  to  the  dishes.  Mary  was  for 
slipping  out  with  her ;  but  Libbie  arose  in  her  imperious 
fashion,  and  said  it  was  her  turn  to  help  and  Mary  could 
entertain  Mr.  Simmons.  Their  father  had  already  gone ; 
and  Mary  attended  to  lighting  the  lamp,  saying  that 
Libbie  would  be  back  presently,  and  sincerely  hoping  she 
spoke  truth. 

But  to-night  Libbie  had  other  quarry ;  for  who  should 
drive  up  just  as  the  dishes  were  finished  but  Oliver  Day. 
Libbie  went  down  to  meet  him  at  the  gate.  Oliver  had  a 
new  buggy ;  and  what  should  be  more  natural  than  that 
she  should  get  in  ?  —  she  had  by  accident  taken  a  light 
shawl, —  and  she  and  Oliver  drove  away  to  enjoy  the 
beautiful  evening  by  the  river.  Then  it  was  that  the  ex 
citement  began  to  grow  more  tense  with  the  little  group 


56  Qjjicksand 

in  the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Hinckley  sitting  reading  her  Advo 
cate^  Mr.  Hinckley  with  his  Bible,  as  usual,  Sam  getting 
next  week's  Sunday-school  lesson, —  for  he  was  a  teacher  at 
the  school-house, —  and  Hubert  staring  out  of  the  window. 
There  came  a  murmur  of  voices  from  the  front  room.  It 
was  the  minister,  who  was  doing  most  of  the  talking. 
Everybody  knew  that  Libbie  was  out  with  Oliver  Day ; 
for  Hubert  had  seen  them  from  the  barn,  and  Libbie 
had  called  out  to  him  to  tell  mother  that  she  had  just 
gone  out  for  a  little  ride.  The  strain  kept  drawing 
tighter  and  tighter,  though  the  religious  reading  went  on. 

At  ten  minutes  of  nine  they  heard  Mr.  Simmons  depart, 
doubtless  disgusted  with  the  runaway  Libbie ;  for  he  did 
not  step  out  into  the  kitchen  to  bid  them  the  customary 
good-night. 

"  Sam,  go  and  help  the  minister  with  his  horse,"  said 
Mrs.  Hinckley,  sharply. 

Sam  rose,  and  lighted  the  lantern.  "  He  might  speak 
to  a  fellow  I  "  he  muttered,  as  he  went  out,  slamming  the 
door.  He  returned  in  fifteen  minutes;  and  just  then 
Libbie  appeared  at  the  outer  door,  her  face  lit  with  ten 
der  radiance,  the  nervousness  now  all  departed.  She 
was  very  beautiful  just  then,  her  black  hair  framing  the 
strong  features,  her  eyes  shining  mistily  from  the  shadow, 
and  the  scarf  shawl  draping  her  shoulders. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  folded  her  Advocate,  and  laid  it  with 
precision  on  its  pile  with  the  others.  Then  she  delib 
erately  took  off  her  glasses,  and  put  them  away  in  the 
case.  Mr.  Hinckley  looked  up  from  his  Bible,  a  milder 
reproach  in  his  face.  Hubert  was  trembling  by  the  win 
dow,  and  Sam  fumbling  with  the  lantern  at  the  shelf 
behind  the  stove.  Just  then  Mary  came  in  from  the 
parlor ;  but  no  one  gave  notice  to  Mary. 

"You   have   been   out   very   late   for   a   girl   of  your 


Q^uicksand  57 

position,  Elizabeth,"  began  the  mother,  severely.  "  The 
minister  has  been  waiting  for  you  all  the  evening,,  and  has 
just  now  gone  away  in  great  displeasure  because  you  have 
given  him  this  insult.  He  did  not  even  bid  us  good- 
evening.  How  can  we  have  the  courage  to  face  him  next 
Sunday  ? " 

"  I  guess  the  minister  didn't  care  much  about  me," 
said  Libbie,  unconcernedly.  "  At  all  events,  I  am  only  a 
sister.  He  told  me  to-day  at  church  he  was  coming  out 
to  see  Mary." 

"What?"  said  the  mother,  wrathfully,  wheeling  about 
in  her  chair.  "  Mary,  did  he  come  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  did,  mother,"  said  Mary,  beginning  to 
cry.  "  I  wanted  you  to  come  in  all  the  time."  Here  her 
words  were  lost  in  her  sobbing. 

"I  —  we  all  have  been  deceived  in  this,  Libbie.  I 
think  you  are  to  blame  for  this." 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  blamed  because  Mr. 
Simmons  is  so  bashful,"  said  Libbie,  composedly.  "  Be 
sides,  Mary  would  always  run  away.  Did  he  ask  you 
to  marry  him,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Ye-ye-yes,"  wept  the  unintelligible  Mary. 

"  And,  mother,  I  have  promised  Oliver  to-night.  He 
has  been  asking  and  waiting  a  year  now.  I  thought  with 
one  minister  in  the  family, —  and  Oliver  has  a  good  prac 
tice  and  is  a  church  member  of  over  a  year's  standing." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  moderating. 
"  Your  father  and  I  will  talk  it  over.  It  seems  that  we 
are  to  congratulate  our  youngest  daughter  first.  Mr. 
Simmons  will  make  a  very  good  husband.  Have  you  not 
often  said  so,  Edward  ?  " 

"  We  had  always  thought  it  was  you,  Libbie,"  said  Mr. 
Hinckley,  not  unkindly;  "but,  if  it  is  Mary  he  has 
chosen," — 


58  Qjuicksand 

"But,  father,  mother,"  broke  in  Mary,  "you  don't 
understand  how  it  is.  I  don't  want  —  I  am  not  ready  to 
marry.  I  must  stay  here  and  work  with  you." 

"  Did  you  refuse  him  ? "  demanded  Libbie,  excitedly. 

"  Ye-ye-yes,"  sobbed  the  defeated  Mary  again. 

"  Why,  only  yesterday  morning  you  said  —  What  do 
you  mean  by  sliding  about  so  ?  I  believe  you  were  talking 
with  Hiram,  asking  his  advice  about  it  1 " 

"  I  was  not,"  said  Mary,  fiercely,  wondering  if  the 
house  would  fall  on  her  because  of  the  lie  she  was 
telling. 

"  Oh,  I  could  see  you  had  been  crying  last  night ;  and 
now  the  minister  will  never  speak  to  any  of  us  again, 
because  I  kept  egging  him  on.  O  Mary,  you  design 
ing  little  minx ! " 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  with  firmness. 
"  You  may  both  of  you  go  to  your  room,  and  let  us  have 
no  quarrelling  there.  Your  father  and  I  will  talk  this 
over." 

"  But  you'll  let  me  marry  Oliver,  won't  you,  mother  ? 
You  know  I  have  promised  him  now." 

"  Your  father  and  I  will  talk  it  over,  I  say ;  but,  for  my 
part,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  give  my  consent.  Oliver  has 
been  a  pretty  bad  character  in  the  town,  smoking  and 
drinking  at  the  saloons." 

"  He  did  not  drink,  or  only  a  little.  He  doesn't  like 
the  stuff ;  and,  besides,  he's  converted.  He's  been  con 
verted  two  years." 

"  A  bad  habit  will  always  return.  I  should  hesitate 
before  letting  him  marry  a  daughter  of  mine." 

"  I  will  marry  him." 

"  Elizabeth  1 "  said  the  father,  sternly. 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  began  Libbie,  her  shoulders  shak 
ing  with  the  coming  sobs. 


Qjiicksand  59 

"  Because  of  the  love  we  have  for  you,"  said  her  mother, 
sternly,  "because  of  the  love  you  bear  us.  We  have 
always  been  happy  together,  and  now  you  will  not  be  the 
one  to  part  us." 

The  stern  woman  was  crying  now  herself,  her  wrinkled 
face  drawing  into  contortions  and  great  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks.  She  held  out  her  arms  toward  Lib- 
bie,  who  clasped  her  wildly  about  the  neck.  Mary  crept 
into  the  group,  and  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  lap,  her 
right  arm  around  Libbie's  waist.  Hubert  set  up  a  wail 
ing  by  the  window.  Mr.  Hinckley  kept  closing  and 
opening  his  Bible  nervously;  and  Sam,  with  his  coat- 
sleeve  dabbing  at  his  eyes  went  out  with  a  slam  at  the 
door. 

The  Hinckley  excitement  had  broken.  The  rain  was 
following  the  lightning. 


VIII. 

AS  Hubert  grew  into  understanding,  his  mother 
came  to  grieve  deeply  that  he  should  turn  so 
much  to  worldly,  idle  thoughts,  and  seem  to  feel 
less  and  less  the  need  of  conversion  from  sin  and  the  aid 
of  a  heavenly  Redeemer.  She  spent  many  hours  on  her 
knees,  praying  in  secret  for  the  boy ;  and  sometimes,  when 
he  came  upon  her  surprisingly,  the  tell-tale  red  in  her  eyes 
made  his  heart  very  tender  for  a  moment.  And  then  he 
was  dreaming  again ;  for  a  new  life  was  opening  to  him, 
—  not  the  heaven  of  religion  that  she  cherished,  but  a 
heaven  of  beauty  instead,  faint  with  subtle  fragrance  and 
lighting,  heavy  with  heartache  and  longing,  impulsive, 
vital,  deep-stirring, —  the  place  whence  it  cometh  unknown, 
the  cause  unknown  to  all  science ;  a  life  which  falls  on 
but  few  men,  and  those  are  God's  chosen  forever. 
Whether  they  be  miserable  or  happy  is  little  matter :  they 
are  always  to  be  numbered  of  the  blessed. 

The  mother  blamed  the  influence  of  Hiram  Stubbs  for 
this  change  that  she  felt,  but  could  not  understand ;  but 
Hubert  was  in  reality  already  far  beyond  Hiram.  And 
often  when  walking  with  him  now,  making  the  rounds  of 
his  trapping,  the  rapt  look  would  come  into  his  eyes ;  and 
Hiram,  seeing  that  the  boy  was  in  a  vision,  had  the  good 
sense  to  keep  still,  not  speaking,  but  taking  his  own 
thoughts. 

Hiram,  too,  had  his  pleasure  of  the  woods  and  fields 
and  knew  the  freedom  of  the  water.  But  his  was  a  more 
concrete  delight.  He  was  curious  of  the  workings  of  nat 
ure,  and  wanted  reasons  in  language  of  cause  and  effect. 
They  would  come  to  a  frozen  brook,  and  sit  for  a  time  in 
the  sunshine.  Hiram  would  break  out  a  piece  of  the  ice, 
and,  turning  it  over  to  the  light,  note  how  the  water  had 


Quicksand  61 

cut  little  intricate  channels  for  itself  and  lingered  in  icy 
palaces  and  corridors,  speculating  on  how  a  certain  ra 
pidity  of  flow  would  cut  this  kind  of  channel,  while  a 
slower  flow  would  cut  another  quite  different,  sometimes 
explaining  to  Hubert,  or  thinking  alone  to  himself,  to  tell 
at  a  later  time  if  there  was  mist  in  the  young  dreamer's 
eyes. 

As  for  Hubert,  what  was  he  thinking  ?  Perhaps  of  the 
groaning,  struggling  brook,  controlled  and  bound  in  by  its 
surroundings,  beating  its  life  out  against  the  ice ;  per 
haps  of  the  fountains  whence  it  came,  the  silent  water 
falls  that  were  roaring  when  he  saw  them  in  the  autumn 
far  up  in  the  lonely  hills,  with  the  yellow,  sad  leaves  float 
ing  down,  like  the  souls  of  dead  loves  or  dead  dreams ; 
or,  perhaps  again,  of  the  river  slipping  away  to  the  Gulf, 
and  finally  widening  to  the  sea  where  eternal  summer 
lingered  and  blossomed,  changing  only  from  day  into 
night  and  back  again  from  night  into  day,  always  through 
soft  tints  of  the  water,  gray  of  dawn  turning  to  lavender, 
lavender  to  pearl  and  rose-pink,  on  to  the  fire  of  the  sun, 
then  blue  with  the  depths  of  the  sky,  back  to  fire  tints  in 
the  evening  and  the  obsidian  blackness  of  night.  All  of 
this  the  boy  imagined  from  the  river,  his  river,  slipping 
on  with  his  dreams. 

Again,  as  they  sat  by  the  brook,  Hiram  noted  the 
plants  that  grew  beside  it,  and  how  they  were  protected 
xfrom  the  cold,  and  what  was  taking  charge  of  the  sowing 
of  the  seeds,  the  wind,  perhaps,  blowing  the  fluffy  ones, 
the  tiny  hooks  that  others  had  for  clinging,  the  mice  and 
squirrels  that  did  their  share  to  help  out  their  big  friends, 
the  trees.  There  were  roots  that  did  not  need  any  seeds, 
but  took  care  to  manage  their  own  sowing.  These  Hiram 
could  study  at  all  seasons :  snows  were  not  so  deep  that 
he  could  not  find  them,  The  uses  of  the  snow,  too,  he 


62  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

could  study,  and  watch  its  curious  driftings.  Hubert 
liked  all  of  this  knowledge,  but  it  did  not  come  from  his 
study.  He  saw  the  beauty  of  the  dead  weeds,  the  rich 
browns  and  soft  greys  of  color.  He  marked  the  grace  and 
slenderness  of  growth,  and  studied  the  delicate  shadows. 
These  were  the  trees  of  little  people :  his  trees  were 
hardly  more  wonderful.  Sometimes  he  came  with  Hiram 
in  the  moonlight ;  and  then  he  lived  all  he  had  dreamed, 
and  leaped  up  ecstatic  in  the  glory.  If  these  were  the 
joys  of  the  winter,  what  could  summer  not  bring,  with  its 
long  wealth  of  green,  and  the  spring  with  its  breaking 
buds  and  bird- song,  and  the  autumn  with  its  mellow 
warmth  of  harvest  ? 

Hubert  did  not  work  hard  in  the  fields.  Sam  was  often 
grumbling  at  the  idle  little  gentleman.  He  was  a  timid 
boy,  and  did  not  take  to  hardship.  At  sixteen  he  was 
afraid  of  a  cow ;  and,  as  for  catching  a  pig,  he  would  run 
into  the  house  if  he  saw  one  coming.  No  matter  if  they 
did  get  into  the  garden,  he  could  not  be  forced  to  stand 
guard  while  others  drove  the  ugly  beasts  toward  him. 
Neither  would  he  have  learned  to  ride  a  horse,  had  not 
Hiram  taken  him  in  hand,  and  forced  him  to  learn,  whether 
he  liked  or  not.  In  time  he  did  enjoy  the  exhilaration  of 
a  gallop,  and  liked  to  go  out  with  Hiram  or  his  father ; 
but  never  would  he  go  anywhere  alone.  Indeed,  his  fears 
were  the  talk  of  the  family,  and  gave  him  cause  for  scald 
ing  tears  of  chagrin.  He  was  a  coward  all  through  his 
boyhood.  Much  as  he  loved  the  woods  and  fields,  he 
would  not  go  alone  for  a  walk  ;  that  is,  not  out  of  hailing 
distance  from  some  of  the  members  of  the  family.  For 
this  reason  he  seemed  always  idle,  always  a  hanger-on  of 
the  workers.  Everything  had  terrors  for  him.  The  woods 
were  haunted  with  robbers  or  insane  men.  He  knew  that 
other  boys  roamed  there  in  safety ;  but  the  sound  of  a 


^u  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  63 

snapping  stick  sent  his  heart  quivering  to  his  throat, 
choking  him  till  he  was  faint  and  could  not  get  his  quiet 
for  hours.  Snakes,  too,  gave  him  great  horror,  and 
things  that  ran  wild  in  the  wood.  He  did  not  mind  them 
when  walking  with  Hiram ;  but,  when  he  encountered  them 
alone,  his  fears  leaped  up  in  an  instant. 

And,  then,  the  terrors  of  the  night,  the  hidden,  haunting 
shapes  in  the  darkness  1  It  was  well  enough  when  in 
company  with  some  one.  He  laughed  and  talked  merrily 
then ;  but  never  would  he  go  out  alone,  not  even  into  the 
wood-house  or  cellar.  If  by  some  chance  he  had  to  go 
out,  the  fear  that  something  would  seize  him  overtook  him ; 
and,  making  a  bolt  for  the  house,  he  would  run  with  the 
terror  of  a  madman,  more  and  more  frightened  as  he 
neared  the  door.  He  could  feel  the  hot  breath  of  a 
monster  behind  him,  till,  just  within  a  step  of  the  thresh 
old,  he  felt  the  faintness  quite  overpowering.  He  reached 
the  knob  just  as  the  paroxysm  overcame  him.  He  dashed 
into  the  light  and  the  safety,  and  then  burned  with  the 
shame  of  his  fears  as  he  saw  the  family  secretly  smiling. 

He  had  dreams  in  his  sleep  that  greatly  enhanced  his 
day  fears.  How  he  dreaded  to  see  the  night  come,  not 
withstanding  the  beauty  of  the  evening  I  He  slept  up 
stairs  with  Sam,  and  would  never  go  to  bed  first,  no  mat 
ter  how  sleepy  or  tired.  If  Sam  were  away  for  the  night, 
he  must  have  his  mother  come  and  sleep  in  the  room,  or 
perhaps  he  could  get  permission  to  stay  with  Hiram, 
though  his  mother  was  very  jealous  of  that.  What  a  joy  it 
was  to  lie  up  close  to  the  big,  warm  Hiram  1  He  never 
knew  any  fears  then,  but  only  the  sense  of  protection.  If 
he  woke  up  in  the  night  in  a  terror  and  waked  up  Sam,  he 
was  often  grumbled  at  for  doing  so,  and  always  chaffed 
about  it  in  the  morning  or  when  other  boys  or  people  were 
around.  But  Hiram  seemed  to  understand.  Perhaps  he 


64  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

had  been  afraid  as  a  boy.  He  always  put  his  arms 
around  the  startled  Hubert,  and  drew  him  up  close  to  his 
breast,  stroking  his  head  perhaps  softly,  but,  best  of  all, 
giving  the  touch  of  his  strong,  breathing  body.  Hubert 
could  hear  his  heart  beating,  pounding  like  a  hammer  in 
the  night,  threatening  all  ghosts  that  could  come  near 
with  the  sound  of  its  never-failing  blows.  He  wished  he 
might  live  always  with  Hiram.  He  would  almost  give  up 
the  love  of  his  mother  to  come  to  the  safety  and  affection 
that  he  knew  in  the  little  log  house. 

There  were  different  kinds  of  dreams  that  he  had, 
most  of  them  waking  him  with  horror.  Once,  when 
quite  a  child,  he  had  dreamed  of  being  lost  in  a 
wood;  and  even  in  the  strongest  daylight,  that  dream 
memory  had  haunted  him  for  months.  Then  there  were 
robbers  and  mad  men  and  wild  animals,  and  sometimes 
the  horror  of  ghosts  or  the  shouts  of  the  wicked  in  hell. 
It  was  not  until  he  had  reached  the  age  of  fifteen  or 
sixteen,  however,  that  a  recurring  dream  began  to  come 
to  him.  The  thought  of  it  by  day  made  him  cold. 

Some  way  this  dream  got  fixed  in  his  mind,  and  would 
not  leave  him,  but  kept  coming  back  from  time  to  time, 
maybe  haunting  him  every  night  for  a  week,  and  then  not 
returning  for  months. 

It  seemed  that  he  was  boarding  in  a  lonely  house  in 
the  country.  Perhaps  he  was  teaching  a  school.  At  any 
rate,  he  seemed  to  be  a  man,  and  had  regular  work 
through  the  day.  There  was  an  old  man  and  his  wife  in 
this  house,  and  in  some  way  they  had  done  dreadful  mur 
der.  The  dreamer  never  knew  exactly  what  it  was. 
Perhaps  they  had  killed  one  of  their  sons,  and  hidden  his 
body  under  the  house.  It  must  have  been  some  time 
before  he  came  there. 

The  great  fear  was  that  these  old  people,  suspecting 


Quicksand  65 

Hubert  as  they  did,  would  kill  him  for  revealing  their 
secret ;  and  his  daily  prayer  was  that  he  might  not  dream 
any  more  of  this  horrible  secret,  and  in  this  way  lay  himself 
liable  to  the  awful  wrath  of  the  dream  people.  He  could 
usually  tell  when  this  dream  was  coming  on,  and  check  it 
by  waking  himself.  Often  it  started  in  the  simplest  and 
most  innocent  way.  He  would  be  surrounded  by  a  com 
pany  of  cheerful  people,  laughing  and  chatting  at  a  party  ; 
and  then  some  bit  of  evidence  would  be  dropped  in  the 
gossip,  some  hint  of  how  the  murder  had  been  done. 
Then  the  frightened  Hubert  would  struggle,  fighting  with 
his  sleep,  that  he  might  waken  and  thrust  the  terrifying 
evidence  out. 

He  never  dreamed  this  dream  when  sleeping  with 
Hiram,  nor  did  he  speak  of  it  to  him.  It  was  too  horrible 
to  be  allowed  in  his  thoughts,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  by  discussing  it  openly  it  might  gradually  grow  faint 
and  disappear.  He  asked  Hiram  to  tell  him  healthy 
stories, —  gay,  jolly  stories  of  the  sea. 


IX. 

IT   had    always    been   understood   in   the    Hinckley 
family  that  Hubert  was  to  be  a  minister ;  and,  as  this 
had  been  given  out  in  the  neighbourhood  and  in  the 
academy   as  well,   the  boy   had  hardly   considered   the 
question  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be  anything  else. 
To  be  sure,  at  times  he  had  received  hints  from  Hiram  that 
a  man  might  be  anything  he  chose  ;  but,  as  a  minister  in  the 
Hinckley  estimation  was  the  highest  possible  personage 
in  society,  there  seemed  to  be  little  choice  left  for  any 
one  who  was  really  ambitious. 

Of  course,  being  a  minister  meant  going  to  college,  or 
in  those  days  it  was  coming  to  mean  so.  The  time  had 
been  when  the  preachers  were  not  of  college  education. 
Indeed,  most  of  them  Hubert  had  heard  were  hardly  more 
advanced  in  their  learning  than  the  farmers  to  whom  they 
preached.  Very  often  it  was  the  case  that  the  preacher 
was  a  farmer  himself,  or  a  carpenter  or  blacksmith,  per 
haps,  who  did  extra  duty  on  Sundays.  But  the  old  days 
of  pure  religion  were  passing  away,  and  the  day  of  edu 
cation  was  arriving.  Now  the  people  wanted  instruction 
with  their  sermons.  Especially  in  the  towns  this  was 
true ;  and  Hubert,  if  he  must  be  a  preacher,  would  aim 
for  the  very  highest.  He  even  dreamed  of  going  to  the 
cities  and  preaching  to  the  multitudes  of  sinners  that  he 
read  about  in  the  Sunday-school  papers. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  did  not  feel  sure  about  sending  him  to 
college  so  long  as  he  was  not  converted ;  but  here  Mr. 
Hinckley  came  in  with  argument  that  seemed  to  answer, 
which  was  that  Hubert  was  different  from  other  boys, 
and  perhaps  did  not  really  need  conversion, —  that  some 
children  seemed  called  from  their  birth,  and  never  fell 
into  the  low  ways  of  sin.  It  was  at  all  events  agreed, 


Qju  icksand  67 

after  serious  deliberation,  that  Hubert  should  be  sent  to 
college.  They  chose  one  of  the  Methodist  denomination, 
as  that  was  the  doctrine  he  should  preach;  and  they 
wrote  to  the  president  there,  and  asked  him  to  give  their 
boy  special  attention,  and  see  that  he  had  the  influence 
that  would  keep  him  in  the  strait  and  narrow  path.  The 
president  promised  most  kindly ;  and  so  it  was  arranged, 
and  the  time  set,  Hubert  being  then  sixteen  years  old. 

It  was  hard  scraping  for  the  family  to  raise  money 
enough  for  this  unprecedented  extravagance.  The  neigh 
bours  all  spoke  of  it  with  scorn,  and  more  than  ever 
the  opinion  was  established  that  the  Hinckleys  were 
a  stuck-up  lot.  Why  should  they  send  their  boy  to  col 
lege  ?  Other  farmers  did  not  take  on  such  expense.  If 
the  boy  wanted  to  be  a  preacher,  the  main  thing  was  first 
to  get  religion.  More  likely  than  not,  if  he  went  off  to 
college,  he  would  lose  what  religion  he  had,  and  make 
himself  unfit  for  earning  a  living,  into  the  bargain.  As  it 
was,  he  wasn't  able  to  do  much, —  just  hang  around  his 
mother  and  sisters.  The  Hinckleys  were  getting  alto 
gether  too  high-toned  for  these  parts.  First  they  wanted 
the  biggest  house  in  the  neighbourhood.  Then  they 
wanted  the  children  to  go  to  the  academy.  Then  they 
must  marry  Libbie  to  Preacher  Simmons,  though  it  did 
take  two  to  make  that  bargain.  And  now  they  would 
send  Hubert  to  college, —  that  puny  little  scrub  of  a  boy  1 

But  the  Hinckleys  kept  perseveringly  on.  Sam  mar 
keted  his  hogs  extra  early  that  year  for  a  start.  Mr. 
Hinckley  went  twenty  miles  away  to  take  a  contract  for 
building.  Libbie  had  been  working  hard  all  the  summer, 
marketing  her  butter  and  eggs.  Mary,  who  had  talent 
for  sewing  and  fancy  work,  had  secured  work  that  she 
could  bring  out  from  Fort  Madison.  Mrs.  Hinckley 
added  her  mite  by  doing  baking  and  washing  for  Hiram. 


68  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

And  Hiram  himself  was  allowed  to  contribute  with  a  shin 
ing  twenty-dollar  gold  piece,  which  he  had  received  for 
his  sales  from  his  trapping.  Then  preparations  began 
for  Hubert's  departure.  First  his  mother  took  him  to  Fort 
Madison,  and  bought  him  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  His  best 
suit  that  he  had  now  for  Sundays  would  have  to  be  worn 
every  day.  They  bought  the  new  suit  large  enough  to 
grow  to.  The  buttons  could  be  set  over  on  the  coat,  and 
the  trousers  turned  up  at  the  bottom.  Then  they  bought 
cloth  for  white  shirts,  with  finest  linen  for  the  bosoms. 
There  was  a  box  of  paper  collars,  too,  and  a  pretty  little 
black  bow  for  a  necktie.  Libbie  had  wanted  a  purple  bow, 
and  surely  ought  to  have  been  allowed  some  right  of  de 
cision,  as  her  egg  money  was  being  spent  on  the  outfit ; 
but  Mrs.  Hinckley  insisted  on  black.  "  It  was  more 
befitting  a  minister,"  she  said,  "  and  already  they  must  be 
thinking  of  that."  Then  they  bought  him  a  fine  pair  of 
boots,  calfskin,  with  high  heels  and  narrow  toes.  His 
underclothes  they  made  of  canton  flannel.  Great  sheets 
of  the  fleecy  stuff  were  purchased.  Hubert  thought  that 
almost  the  prettiest  of  all.  Meanwhile  he  was  thinking 
of  the  coming  examinations,  and  was  reviewing  all  of  his 
books,  Mary  acting  as  examiner  in  the  evening,  after  her 
day's  work  was  done. 

They  almost  dreaded  the  day  of  departure,  notwith 
standing  they  were  proud  to  have  him  going.  Libbie 
grew  quite  fierce  at  her  work,  ironing  the  newly  made 
shirts  three  times  over  before  she  was  satisfied.  Mary 
was  seen  crying  on  several  occasions,  but  no  one  ques 
tioned  her  why.  Mr.  Hinckley  bought  Hubert  a  new 
Bible,  writing  a  dedication  on  the  fly-leaf.  Sam  gave  him 
a  copy  of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  Hiram  a  brand-new 
pocket-knife,  with  three  shining  and  well-tempered  blades. 
Mrs.  Hinckley  did  not  say  much.  She  seemed  to  say 


Qji  icksand  69 

less  every  day ;  but,  as  they  watched  her  going  about 
with  the  preparations,  they  could  see  she  was  suffering 
acutely,  her  face  was  growing  older  and  more  wrinkled, 
so  much  so  that  the  evening  before  the  last  morning  Lib- 
bie  broke  down  in  hysterical  weeping,  and  was  hurried 
off,  helpless,  to  bed. 

And  then  the  morning  itself  was  at  hand.  The  new 
trunk  was  receiving  its  final  contributions  before  it  should 
be  closed  and  locked  inevitably.  Everybody  went  around 
with  a  heavy  sense  of  weight.  Nothing  at  breakfast 
tasted  good,  and  they  were  glad  when  that  formality  was 
over.  Mary  was  now  crying  in  the  pantry  instead  of 
making  herself  ready  for  town. 

It  had  been  decided  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hinckley  and 
the  two  girls  should  go  to  the  train  to  see  Hubert  off, 
and  that  day  Sam  would  work  for  Hiram,  digging  the 
early  potatoes.  Hiram  came  up  to  see  them  off,  and 
bid  cheery  good  luck  to  the  Captain.  They  drove  away 
from  the  house  on  the  hill,  the  new  trunk  in  the  back  of 
the  wagon.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  funeral,  yet  to 
Hubert  it  was  a  time  of  delicious  excitement.  He  was 
glad,  however,  that  Hiram  remained  merry :  otherwise, 
the  Captain  might  have  shed  a  few  tears.  It  was  sad, 
once  they  were  on  the  road  and  the  stone  house  was 
behind  and  above  them.  There  were  ugly  and  aching 
lumps  in  his  throat,  and  a  dim  mist  quivering  over  the 
river  as  he  sat  wedged  in  the  spring  seat  between  his  two 
sisters,  and  the  wagon  went  rattling  along  in  the  dust; 
and  still  far  behind  he  could  see  Sam  and  Hiram  walking 
down  the  path  to  the  cabin. 

But  the  agony  was  yet  to  be  prolonged  by  the  three 
lonely  women  staying  with  him.  They  arrived  at  the 
station  an  hour  early,  though  they  had  been  in  a  fidget  of 
worry  all  morning  for  fear  that  they  might  be  too  late. 


70  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

It  is  gloomy  waiting  at  a  station.  Everything  to  say 
has  been  said  except  the  last  dreaded  thing, —  the  only 
thing,  however,  which  brings  relief.  It  was  a  sultry, 
hot  day  in  early  September.  It  seemed  the  station  clock 
would  never  change :  the  hands  must  be  stuck  fast  with 
dust. 

At  last  the  big  engine  came  puffing  up.  Would  it 
stop  long  enough  to  give  him  time  to  get  on  ?  Libbie 
seized  him  wildly  around  the  neck,  regardless  of  crump 
ling  the  newly  ironed  shirt.  Then  Mary  stood  crying  help 
lessly  in  turn,  not  doing  anything,  but  feeling  very  badly. 
His  mother  was  quivering  as  she  kissed  him,  and  tears 
were  flowing  down  her  cheeks.  Hubert  was  crying,  too, 
as  he  left  them,  his  father  taking  him  into  the  car,  and 
stopping  to  speak  to  the  conductor  to  see  that  the  boy 
made  the  proper  change  at  Burlington.  There,  now  I 
the  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  conductor  uttering  that  wild 
and  foreign  cry,  "  All  aboard ! "  his  mother  and  his  sisters 
at  the  windows,  he  in  the  red  plush-covered  seat.  Slowly 
the  station  began  moving,  then  the  town  was  slipping 
away  behind  him.  Hubert  was  getting  sick  and  dizzy, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  the  inside  of  the  car.  Now 
that  he  was  going  off  to  college,  he  must  be  a  man  and 
not  cry  any  more.  Already  he  was  thinking  of  the  cheery 
Hiram's  "  Good  luck,  Captain,"  and  no  more,  the  gay, 
tender  laughter  all  shining,  all  twinkling  and  glinting  in 
his  eyes. 


X. 

HUBERT  had  never  been  in  a  railway  carriage 
before ;  and  but  little  time  could  be  given  to  re 
grets,  as  all  his  attention  was  absorbed  in  the 
strangeness  of  the  new  situation.  Then  there  was  the 
change  of  cars  at  Burlington  after  he  had  ridden  an 
hour,—  the  conductor  pointed  out  the  train  he  was  to 
take, —  there  was  the  worry  of  his  luggage  and  his  lunch- 
box.  Then  the  flying  landscape  began  again  at  the  win 
dows,  and  the  people  inside  were  so  interesting. 

All  too  soon  the  brakeman  was  calling  Mt.  Pleasant; 
and  Hubert  was  getting  off  again,  arrived  at  college  at 
last,  nothing  but  a  little  brown  station  as  yet,  but  no  doubt 
wonderful  in  the  background. 

A  very  knowing-looking  young  gentleman,  wearing  a 
blue  badge  on  his  coat,  came  forward  at  this  juncture,  and 
said  politely,  "Are  you  Mr.  Hinckley,  sir?"  Hubert 
looked  about  involuntarily  to  see  whether  his  father  were 
behind  him;  and  then,  recollecting  that  he  was  now 
entering  college,  he  suggested  apologetically,  "  I  am 
Hubert  Hinckley." 

"  Oh,  yes !  Come  this  way.  Let  me  help  you  with 
your  grip.  You  can  go  to  the  office  at  once.  The  presi 
dent  will  see  you,  and  have  your  room  assigned." 

Hubert  got  into  the  spring  wagon  along  with  the  two 
other  boys,  who  likewise  seemed  to  be  new  students.  It 
was  a  comfort  to  find  some  one  else  who  did  not  know 
more  than  he  did.  One  of  the  fellows  spoke  to  him,  and 
Hubert  was  very  thankful  to  him  for  it.  They  stopped  in 
front  of  a  big  brick  building,  standing  in  the  middle  of  a 
park.  "Here  is  the  office,"  said  the  knowing  young 
gentleman,  leading  the  way  into  a  narrow  hall,  and  then 
turning  into  a  door  on  the  right,  where  three  or  four 


72  Quicksand 


other  students  were  standing  waiting  in  a  line  before 
they  should  speak  to  the  president,  a  grey-haired,  dig 
nified-looking  gentleman,  who  spoke  with  professional 
kindliness  to  each  new-comer  in  turn. 

The  ordeal,  when  it  came,  was  not  trying,  though  Hu 
bert  found  himself  a  little  breathless  and  was  sadly  in 
need  of  a  swallow  of  water  to  enable  him  to  speak  more 
comfortably.  The  president  said  much  the  same  thing  to 
him  that  he  had  to  the  boys  before.  His  father's  letter 
was  remembered.  Yes,  they  would  give  him  a  boarding- 
place.  They  knew  of  a  very  good  family.  He  was  sent 
on  to  the  Committee  on  Entrance  Examinations,  two  more 
men  of  grey,  learned  dignity.  Hubert  was  given  a  list  of 
announcements,  told  to  come  in  the  morning  at  nine 
o'clock,  supplied  with  pencil  and  paper,  and  again  turned 
over  to  the  care  of  the  knowing  young  gentleman,  who 
took  him  for  a  walk  across  the  park  and  down  one  or  two 
streets  on  the  side  till  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  neat 
yellow  house,  and  announced  to  the  kind-looking  lady 
there  that  he  had  brought  her  another  new  boarder. 

Mrs.  Newman  was  a  pleasant  old  lady,  and  immediately 
began  to  concern  herself  about  the  welfare  of  her  guest. 
Would  he  like  a  room-mate  or  a  single  room  ?  "  A  room 
mate,"  said  Hubert,  hurriedly,  thinking  of  the  darkness  of 
the  nights.  Well,  she  had  a  boarder  now  who  wanted  a 
room-mate.  His  name  was  Mr.  O'Malley ;  and  he  was  a 
very  nice,  quiet  gentleman.  Would  Mr.  Hinckley  like  to 
see  the  room?  And  they  climbed  the  carpeted  stairs. 
The  room  was  cheery  and  light,  though  with  a  sense  of 
barrenness  of  furniture,  which  was  hardly  explainable,  how 
ever,  as  everything  needed  was  in  it.  There  was  a  wide 
white  bed,  a  stove,  a  bureau,  a  washstand,  and  a  table,  all 
of  them  standing  up  high  on  their  legs,  as  if  they  might  be 
of  feminine  timidity  and  an  alarm  of  mouse  had  been 


Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  73 

given.  A  rag  carpet  covered  the  floor,  and  white  muslin 
curtains  the  two  windows.  The  wall  paper  was  cream- 
color  and  of  chicken-fence  pattern.  Two  pictures  in 
black  oval  frames  hung  on  the  walls.  They  were  photo 
graphs  of  family  groups.  And  a  cardboard  motto  worked 
in  green  zephyr,  stating  in  intricate,  ornamental  letters  that 
"  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,"  was  tipped  with  its  face 
well  downward  over  the  lintel  of  the  door. 

Hubert  barely  had  time  to  reconnoitre  when  Mr. 
O'Malley  came  in.  Mrs.  Newman  introduced  them  to 
each  other,  and  left  them  with  the  word  that  supper  would 
be  ready  at  six,  and  that,  if  Mr.  Hinckley  would  like  to  get 
his  trunk  from  the  depot,  he  could  have  the  wheelbarrow 
any  time,  and  perhaps  Mr.  O'Malley  would  show  him  the 
wayi  Then  the  two  room-mates  were  alone  together  to 
survey  each  other  and  get  acquainted. 

Thomas  O'Malley  was  also  the  son  of  a  farmer,  and 
lived  only  nine  miles  from  Mt.  Pleasant.  He  would  some 
times  go  home  on  Sundays.  Hubert  thought  of  the  lone 
liness  of  the  nights.  He  was  long  and  gaunt  and  brown. 
His  hair  stood  up  in  a  brush.  He  was  freckled,  and  had 
decayed  front  teeth.  He  talked  chiefly  of  to-morrow's  ex 
amination,  and  especially  of  the  study  of  "  algebray,"  of 
which  he  seemed  very  fond.  He  told  Hubert  which  man 
on  the  committee  had  been  the  professor  in  mathematics, 
and  said  that  the  other  was  Latin,  but  that  he  had  no  use 
for  him.  On  the  whole,  he  seemed  a  very  nice  fellow. 
He  was  older  than  Hubert,  for  one  thing, —  nineteen,  he 
said,  through  his  bad  teeth, —  and  he  offered  to  go  along 
to  the  station  for  the  trunk  and  give  a  lift  on  the  wheel 
barrow.  It  was  more  like  home  when  they  returned  and 
got  the  trunk  open,  and  Hubert  began  disposing  of  his 
things. 

The  supper-bell  rang  at  six  o'clock.     They  went  down 


74  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

to  eat  with  the  other  six  boarders,  also  students.  Mrs. 
Newman's  two  daughters  waited  on  the  table ;  and  some 
of  the  boys  seemed  well  acquainted,  having  evidently  been 
there  before. 

Hubert  was  very  much  alarmed  to  find  everybody  so 
well  dressed.  He  wondered  whether  it  was  in  honor  of 
the  first  day  or  whether  they  went  this  way  always.  After 
supper  he  went  out  for  a  walk  with  O'Malley,  who  said  in 
the  midst  of  his  discourse  on  "  algebray  "  that  "  you  might 
as  well  call  me  Tom."  This  was  a  relief  in  the  beginning, 
and  Hubert  gave  his  own  Christian  name. 

They  returned,  and  went  to  bed  early ;  but  it  was  a  long 
time  before  the  restless  new-comer  could  lose  himself  in 
his  sleep. 


XI. 

IN  a  week's  time  Hubert  was  established  in  the  regular 
routine  of  college  study  that  is  such  a  joy  and  satis 
faction  to  the  enthusiastic  young  student.  Latin  con 
struction  and  Greek  verbs, —  they  were  the  serious  matters 
of  life.  He  dreamed  of  them  now  in  the  night,  no  more 
of  the  haunting  murder.  He  was  not  even  very  nervous 
when  Tom  went  home  over  Saturday  and  Sunday.  It  was 
quieter  for  study  then ;  and,  after  poring  for  hours  over 
the  print,  the  boy  would  put  out  his  light,  and  soon  be  in 
restful  sleep.  It  was  a  lonely  life  for  a  lad,  and  yet  he 
was  never  lonesome.  There  were  occasional  conversa 
tions  with  the  other  boys  of  the  house,  arguments  with 
Tom  over  the  lessons,  and  the  constant  procession  of  prac 
tical  jokes  that  belong  to  the  Freshmen  in  college.  Then 
he  went  for  long  walks  through  the  town,  back  and  forth 
through  the  quiet,  shady  streets,  where  the  gold  of  au 
tumnal  leaves  was  glowing.  Sometimes  the  boys  would 
make  up  a  party,  and  go  out  to  the  woods  to  gather 
nuts.  A  creek  half  encircled  the  town,  offering  picturesque 
bits  of  stone  bank  and  low,  level  stretches  of  pebbles,  with 
the  wooded  hills  rising  beyond.  Once  on  the  level  of  the 
tops  of  the  hills,  the  view  was  a  rolling  prairie,  all  beauti 
ful  to  the  eyes  of  a  youth  with  the  fervor  of  genius  grow 
ing  in  him.  Hubert  sometimes  spoke  of  these  things  to 
the  boys  much  as  he  had  done  to  Hiram ;  but,  rinding 
that  they  smiled  at  him  for  his  sentiment,  he  began  to 
keep  his  thoughts  secret.  And,  this  being  the  surest 
method  of  making  longings  grow,  they  soon  would  per 
force  have  expression,  and  found  it  in  bits  of  verse,  in 
snatches  of  song  and  prose  idyls.  All  these  he  kept  to 
himself,  or  occasionally  sent  one  to  Hiram.  The  man  not 
being  anything  of  a  literary  judge  read  them  because  they 


76  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

were  from  Hubert,  and  liked  them  for  the  same  reason, 
perhaps ;  but  he  did  not  speak  of  them  when  he  saw  the 
lad's  parents,  neither  did  he  breathe  a  word  of  them  to 
Mary.  In  this  Hubert  trusted  him  so  much  that  it  had 
not  even  occurred  to  him  to  urge  caution  for  his  secrets, 
though  he  would  not  have  had  the  verses  reach  his  family 
for  the  world.  The  verses  were,  in  truth,  not  mangels  of 
prodigious  genius ;  nor  yet  were  they  the  mere  gush  of  a 
youth  who  has  not  yet  let  his  eyes  fall  on  a  maid,  but 
whose  growth  demands  some  kind  of  gushing.  They 
were  delicate  fancies  of  song  in  the  skies,  of  spirits 
in  the  hills  and  the  water,  and  humanity  in  all  living 
things.  They  sang  with  a  true  ring  of  music  at  times, 
quaint  and  plaintive  in  melody,  like  the  poems  of  Heine 
almost,  though  not  with  their  great  understanding.  Hu 
bert  was  reading  now.  The  town  library  was  a  mine  of 
wealth  to  him,  and  what  he  read  did  much  to  mould  his 
form  and  thought  in  the  little  products  that  he  yielded. 
They  were  reflected  back  from  him,  though  always  the  rea 
son  of  the  reflection  came  from  his  own  heart's  yearning. 
How  bashful  he  was  and  retiring,  as  he  slipped  about 
in  the  crowds  of  the  hallways,  going  to  and  from  his 
classes  1  He  hardly  dared  lift  his  eyes  as  he  met  the  older 
students  promenading,  each  dapper  gentleman  walking 
with  a  girl,  pretending  great  enlivenment  with  her  conver 
sation.  They  came  to  say  Hubert  was  proud,  or  was 
indifferent  and  did  not  want  acquaintance.  This  was 
not  true.  The  boy  was  breathless  for  recognition,  but  his 
fears  were  that  he  might  not  be  worthy.  He  was  ill- 
dressed  and  uncouth  beside  the  other  students.  He  felt 
their  superiority  at  every  turn,  except  when  reciting  his 
lessons ;  and  this  did  not  seem  to  him  a  social  test.  He 
did  not  know  how  much  they  respected  him.  The  shabbi- 
ness  of  his  dress  never  ceased  to  mortify  and  subdue  him. 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  77 

The  grey  suit  that  his  mother  had  thought  so  fine  was 
worn  every  day  instead  of  Sundays,  and  then  was  ill-fit 
ting  and  ugly.  The  stiff  grey  was  not  like  the  others. 
The  boys  had  suits  in  dark  colors,  or  more  often  black 
coats  that  were  jaunty  and  graceful,  with  grey  trousers, 
fresh  pressed  and  natty.  His  coat  was  too  big ;  and  the 
buttons  were  set  over,  making  a  one-sided  opening  at  the 
neck.  His  trousers  were  too  loose  and  hung  in  folds. 
One  of  the  boys  at  the  house  had  remarked  jokingly,  not 
knowing  how  it  would  be  nurtured  for  months,  that  from 
the  fitting  of  Hubert's  trousers  one  would  think  several 
families  had  moved  out.  Then  he  wore  paper  collars, 
and  his  cuffs  were  always  ironed  in  wrinkles.  Why  did 
Libbie  make  him  cuffs  sewed  on  to  his  shirt?  Other 
boys  had  smooth,  polished  linen.  His  black  hat,  he 
imagined,  did  not  look  well  with  his  grey  suit.  He 
watched  every  fellow  he  met,  to  see  if  one  had  a  grey 
suit  and  black  hat.  Not  one !  And  then,  if  there  was 
possibility  of  the  students  speaking  to  him,  the  terror- 
stricken  Hubert  would  cross  the  street,  or  keep  his  eyes 
on  the  ground  and  pretend  not  to  have  noticed  the  fellow. 

He  did  not  take  any  part  in  the  athletic  sports,  partly 
because  he  was  not  willing  to  take  off  his  coat  and  let  the 
boys  see  how  high  he  kept  his  trousers  pulled  up,  because 
they  were  large,  "  for  him  to  grow  to,"  and  partly,  it  must 
also  be  said,  because  he  was  girlish  and  backward,  never 
having  played  base-ball  at  all,  out  of  fear  of  being 
laughed  at  for  his  awkwardness. 

He  had  been  accustomed  to  sew  at  home, —  to  piece 
patchwork  quilts  with  the  girls, —  and  even  to  do  crochet 
ing.  What  if  these  boys  should  know  of  that!  He 
blushed  at  the  very  thought;  but  one  day,  when  they 
went  to  the  dam  in  the  creek,  he  thanked  Hiram  for 
having  taught  him  swimming.  And  the  way  he  dived  and 


78  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

swam  under  water,  doing  all  the  fancy  strokes,  made  him 
the  talk  of  the  college,  and  brought  him  the  first  glory  he 
had  known. 

In  one  matter,  however,  Hubert  had  been  bolder  and 
more  like  the  other  students.  He  had  joined  one  of  the 
literary  societies  the  very  first  Friday  he  was  there.  In 
due  time  his  name  was  posted  on  the  programme  for  an 
essay,  and  on  this  he  had  courageously  set  to  work. 
Perhaps  his  highest  ambition  at  that  time  was  to  be  an 
elocutionist,  or,  secretly,  an  actor.  He  remembered  his 
early  successes  at  the  district  school  and  the  spelling- 
schools.  He  had  also  won  fame  at  the  academy,  so  that 
now,  with  this  consciousness  of  power  within  him,  he 
would  speak  out  his  hopes  in  this  essay,  and  urge  on  his 
hearers  at  the  society  the  study  that  seemed  to  him  most 
important, —  the  culture  of  the  human  voice.  He  had  read 
in  an  old  book  on  elocution  most  of  the  argument  he 
would  employ,  but  this  was  added  to  and  illustrated  by 
what  he  had  learned  in  his  physiology  and  the  text-books 
of  Latin  and  Greek.  Best  of  all,  he  would  employ  at  the 
end  a  quotation  from  Dryden's  "  Saint  Cecilia,"  which 
seemed  to  him  the  most  beautiful  poem  in  existence. 

"  At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame," 

it  began ;  and,  then,  the  magnificent  finish,— 

"He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down." 

Hubert  had  a  gesture  for  this.  He  had  practised  it  in  his 
room  for  three  weeks. 

At  length  the  appointed  Friday  came,  and  tremblingly 
he  waited  the  call  of  his  name.  He  tried  to  listen  to  the 
other  members,  but  could  only  think  of  his  essay  and  the 


uicksand  79 


coming  turn.  In  time  he  was  on  the  little  rostrum  before 
them,  the  well-dressed  gentlemen  and  young  ladies  whose 
faces  he  knew  so  well,  but  whose  acquaintance  he  had 
so  studiously  avoided.  If  it  had  only  been  night  instead 
of  day  !  —  the  glaring  sunlight  was  so  bald  and  harsh, 
where  lamplight  gives  courage  and  glamour.  In  spite  of 
the  dryness  of  his  mouth,  he  began, —  he  would  convince 
these  gentlemen  yet.  The  second  paragraph  was  hardly 
under  way  when  his  knees  began  a  terrible  shaking. 
Sidewise  and  back  they  went  inside  the  flabby  trousers, 
till  the  turmoil  arose  to  his  waist,  and  even  his  voice 
took  the  tremor.  Once  he  stopped  almost  to  smile  with 
the  audience,  it  was  so  pitiful,  and  yet  he  knew  so  funny. 
Finally,  he  wabbled  over  and  leaned  for  support  on  the 
piano.  The  will  power  it  took  was  something  terrible ; 
but  after  that  the  essay  went  on  more  smoothly,  and  the 
hearers  were  sincerely  interested.  But,  then,  in  the  end, 
he  tried  the  gesture;  and  it  ran  into  miserable  failure. 
His  coat  was  buttoned,  for  one  thing;  and  that  would 
not  let  his  arm  go  up  high  enough.  Then,  who  ever 
heard  of  making  a  gesture  in  an  essay  1  He  thought  of 
this  while  he  was  making  the  gesture.  Oh,  the  chagrin 
of  the  applause,  the  weakness  upon  taking  his  seat  I 
But,  still,  he  came  to  the  literary  society  on  the  following 
Friday :  he  was  not  to  be  beaten  in  that.  And  worthily 
enough  it  came  out  that  by  the  holiday  season  Hubert 
Hinckley  was  recognised  by  all  as  one  of  the  most  valu 
able  of  the  new  student  members. 


XII. 

IT  was  one  of  the  rules  of  the  college  that  students 
should  attend  church  on  Sunday.  There  were  also 
chapel  services  every  morning,  attendance  likewise 
required ;  and  special  credit  was  given  for  going  to 
prayer-meeting  on  Wednesday  night.  So  that  the  young 
people  did  not  lack  religious  instruction.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  Hubert  would  have  found  his  way  regu 
larly  to  the  Methodist  church,  whether  it  was  demanded 
of  him  or  not.  It  had  always  been  his  habit  at  home, 
and  habits  are  not  broken  easily.  He  was  pleased, 
too,  and  surprised,  to  find  so  many  well-dressed  and  emi 
nently  respectable  people  believing  as  he  had  been  taught. 
All  of  the  professors  came  here,  and  many  of  the  wealthy 
of  the  town.  It  is  a  good  feeling  to  be  with  the  best  of  the 
crowd,  even  if  one's  clothes  are  ill-fitting.  Still,  Hubert 
was  not  to  be  called  religious.  His  attention  was  listless 
at  the  sermon,  and  he  thought  of  other  things  immedi 
ately  after.  He  would  look  at  the  sky  or  the  trees  or  the 
fashionable  millinery  of  the  ladies  as  soon  as  he  came 
out  of  doors. 

A  month  before  the  Christmas  season,  when  he  was  to 
go  home  for  vacation,  there  came  a  great  experience  in 
his  life.  It  came  about  through  a  religious  revival,  some 
thing  that  had  not  claimed  him  before. 

The  revival  was  an  important  affair  in  the  town  of  Mt. 
Pleasant ;  for  one  of  the  world-famed  evangelists  was  com 
ing,  and  a  harvest  of  souls  was  predicted.  The  evangelist 
always  worked  in  company  with  a  singer  also  of  renown, 
a  man  with  a  beautiful  tenor  voice,  who  could  make  con 
gregations  tremble,  so  delicate  and  plaintive  was  his  sing 
ing.  The  singer's  wife  also  was  with  them,  to  play  ac 
companiment  on  her  small  organ  and  aid  her  husband 


Qjiicksand  si 

with  her  own  beautiful  voice,  a  steady,  supporting  contralto. 
Crowds  filled  the  big  church  every  night,  and  many  waited 
outside.  Scores  of  teams  came  in  from  the  country,  and 
trains  brought  many  from  the  neighbouring  villages. 
Hubert  went  almost  every  night.  The  pleading  voice 
of  the  singer  drew  him. 

The  preacher,  too,  was  interesting.  He  had  been  an 
evangelist  for  twelve  years,  travelling  all  over  the  world. 
He  had  been  in  Palestine  and  in  India,  and  was  constantly 
recounting  his  experiences  and  telling  how  souls  came  to 
Jesus  or  else  just  failed  in  their  salvation,  and  the  mother 
wept  over  the  lost  one.  His  voice  was  strong  and  sonor 
ous,  trembling  and  husky  for  the  proper  emotions.  Men 
and  women  throughout  the  congregation  were  in  tears, 
many  shoulders  shook  with  sobbing,  then  the  low  wailing 
singing  began,  penetrating  every  corner  of  the  building. 

"  Sing  it  o'er  and  o'er  again : 
Christ  receiveth  sinful  men." 

A  wave  of  holiness  and  awe  swept  over  the  hushed  con 
gregation.  It  seemed  there  was  hope  for  them  yet. 

To  Hubert  this  was  different  from  the  revivals  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed.  Here  they  did  not  frighten 
him  with  the  punishment  of  everlasting  hell-fire,  although 
the  idea  of  hell  was  in  the  background.  They  talked 
chiefly  of,  the  gentleness  of  Jesus,  of  his  suffering  and 
meekness  and  courage.  Most  of  all  they  talked  of  the 
mother's  love  for  her  son,  and  how  she  was  now,  perhaps, 
weeping  and  praying  at  home,  in  order  that  her  absent 
loved  one  might  be  saved,  might  confess  his  sins  and  re 
ceive  salvation,  and  rejoice  after  death  with  her  in  heaven. 
The  mother,  too,  was  most  frequently  pictured  as  being 
failing  in  years,  being  overworked  and  over-worried  with 
care,  yet  patient  and  long-suffering  in  silence.  Alas  !  this 


82  Qjiicksand 

was  all  so  true.  "  How  selfish  and  ungrateful  I  am ! " 
thought  Hubert  during  the  loneliness  of  the  singing. 

"Where,  oh,  where  is  my  boy  to-night? "  and  the  con 
gregation  joining  in  the  chorus  till  his  soul  was  resound 
ing  with  music.  He  went  home  the  first  night  thoughtful, 
paying  little  heed  to  Tom  and  his  mathematics.  Yes,  he 
was  a  wanderer  outside,  he  was  lonely  and  restless  with 
heartache.  How  beautiful  if  he  could  find  rest!  He 
thought  more  now  of  his  own  mother,  the  white-haired, 
hard-working  woman,  who  had  cried  so  when  she  held  him 
in  her  arms  that  last  time  at  the  Fort  Madison  station. 
He  had  seen  her  cry  rarely  at  other  times,  and  it  was  al 
ways  for  love  of  her  children.  He  remembered  how, 
during  the  protracted  meetings,  she  had  always  grown  so 
haggard  with  watching,  so  wan  with  waiting  for  him, 
who  sat  obstinately  on  the  back  seat.  The  tears  were 
flowing  from  his  eyes  in  the  night.  He  awoke  to  find 
himself  weeping.  He  went  to  the  meeting  again  and 
again,  his  torments  growing  and  growing.  The  third 
night  he  stood  up  for  prayers.  It  was  a  very  simple  thing 
to  do.  Many  of  the  students  were  doing  it.  Surely,  pray 
ers  of  good  people  could  not  harm  him.  When  the  praying 
was  over,  he  was  trembling ;  and  the  beautiful  music  did 
not  comfort  him.  Two  more  nights  he  listened  and 
wavered,  his  soul  drinking  eagerly  every  word.  Both 
nights  he  stood  up  for  prayers.  Crowds  of  people  were 
beginning  to  go  forward  and  tell  of  the  joys  of  salvation. 
On  Saturday  he  wandered  out  in  the  woods.  He  could  not 
keep  his  mind  on  his  studies. 

The  day  was  a  disagreeable  one  and  dreary.  The 
streets  were  a  mess  of  black  mud,  the  sky  was  leaden  and 
low  settling,  occasionally  giving  spatters  of  rain.  Often 
times  Hubert  would  have  been  afraid  to  go  alone,  but  now 
he  was  reckless  in  his  misery.  "  Would  the  Lord  receive 


Qjiicksand  83 

him  if  he  should  go  forward  ?  "  he  kept  thinking,  he  had 
been  so  wicked  in  the  past.  He  reviewed  it  all  over  now, 
—  how  he  had  teased  Libbie  and  shirked  his  work  on  to 
Mary ;  how  he  had  been  defiant  with  Sam,  refusing  to 
obey  his  orders;  how  he  had  sometimes  deceived  his 
father  because  he  was  afraid  of  punishment.  He  could 
not  think  of  ever  sinning  against  Hiram,  but  perhaps  he 
should  have  tried  to  convert  him  to  religion.  Omission  to 
do  that,  he  was  told,  was  the  most  deadly  sin  of  all. 
But,  most  of  all,  he  thought  of  his  mother,  and  how  he  had 
given  her  only  grief  and  trouble  and  care.  He  was  cry 
ing  now,  as  he  saw  the  dismal  trees,  dripping  with  bare 
branches  in  the  fog.  Would  God  forgive  and  receive 
him  ?  he  wondered,  his  heart  was  so  black  and  festered 
with  sin.  Could  it  become  "  whiter  than  snow,"  as  the 
steady  singing  promised  it  could  ?  He  went  back  weak 
and  weary,  but  he  had  taken  a  vow  to  the  dull  sky.  He 
would  go  forward  that  night  at  the  church,  and  ask  Jesus 
Christ  for  forgiveness. 

At  supper  he  was  nervous  and  disturbed,  but  the  others 
did  not  notice  it  to  chaff  him.  Indeed,  they,  too,  were 
affected  by  the  meetings.  Mrs.  Newman  and  her 
daughters  attended.  Hubert  tried  to  read  the  Bible  till 
it  was  time  to  go,  but  he  could  not  find  comfort  in  its 
pages.  He  went  early  to  the  church,  and  took  a  seat  well 
up  in  front.  It  would  not  attract  so  much  attention  when 
he  came  to  go  forward  with  the  mourners.  All  the  time 
until  the  services  began  he  leaned  his  head  forward  on 
the  pew,  and  tried  to  be  thinking  a  prayer ;  but  he  seemed 
too  self-conscious  to  pray.  Then  the  services  began,  and 
the  words  of  the  preacher  caught  and  bound  him. 
Surely,  he  could  take  the  experiences  of  this  man.  Why 
did  Satan  so  tempt  him  with  doubting  ?  After  the  singing 
came  the  call  to  go  forward.  Would  he  dare  to  rise  be- 


84  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

fore  them  all?  The  preacher  was  uttering  words  of 
encouragement  while  the  congregation  sang.  Yes,  he  was 
rising,  he  was  going,  he  was  drawn  as  by  invisible  ropes. 
His  eyes  were  fixed,  and  felt  dry  and  glassy.  Would 
Christ  receive  his  poor  soul  ?  Once  forward  on  the 
bench,  he  knelt  down  and  tried  to  pray.  How  black  and 
wicked  he  felt  1  "  O  God,  forgive  me  my  sins  1  O 
Jesus,  receive  my  spirit !  "  he  cried,  and  wept  so  violently 
that  the  preacher  himself  —  the  great  man  who  had  saved 
so  many  thousands  of  souls  —  reached  over,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Have  courage,  brother,"  he  said. 
"  The  Lord  will  come  to  you  yet."  But  that  night  the 
Lord  did  not  come,  though  other  mourners  were  bright- 
eyed  with  joy.  Was  his  degradation  so  low?  Dear 
mother,  keep  praying  at  home.  He  could  not  sleep  that 
night,  and  was  thankful  for  once  that  Tom  had  gone  home, 
and  would  not  be  back  till  Monday. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  he  went  to  church  and  was 
attentive,  staying  as  usual  to  the  Sunday-school.  In  the 
afternoon  there  was  to  be  a  meeting  for  young  men  alone. 
The  great  preacher  was  to  talk  to  them,  and  many  of  the 
students  were  going.  Hubert  listened  to  the  words  as 
for  his  life.  The  preacher  told  how  salvation  would  come 
to  a  soul,  that  it  was  easy,  not  difficult,  as  many  sup 
posed.  One  had  only  to  remain  passive,  expecting ;  and 
the  holiness  would  flow  in  upon  him.  In  the  evening 
Hubert  went  forward  again,  and  remembered  the 
preacher's  instructions.  They  were  praying  and  plead 
ing  all  around  him,  he  alone  quietly  waiting. 

Suddenly  it  came.  Like  a  flash  of  light,  peace  was  on 
him !  Oh,  the  restfulness  of  the  souls  of  the  blessed ! 
Almost  he  thought  he  saw  the  face  of  Jesus  smiling  upon 
him.  He  would  have  seen  it  but  for  the  whiteness  of  the 
light.  Then  his  heart  was  singing  content,  his  life  began 


Quicksand  85 

flowing  again,  pain  had  forever  passed  away.  No  longer 
the  singing  was  pleading.  It  was  the  voices  of  angels  in 
his  ears, —  of  angels  chanting  psalms  of  glory.  He  sank 
back  his  head  on  the  steps  to  the  altar,  his  whole  soul 
filled  with  its  sense  of  completion.  This  was  the  consum 
mation  of  religion.  His  body  was  weak  with  its  ecstasy. 

When  the  services  were  ended,  he  arose  with  the  rest, 
and  waited  patiently  with  the  crowd.  One  would  not 
know  he  was  so  changed  except  by  carefully  studying  the 
face.  But  to  him  within  all  was  different.  The  slow 
walking  was  a  majestic  march.  His  legs  moved  without 
his  will  and  as  in  rhythm  to  the  peals  of  a  mighty  organ. 
Once  outside  the  door,  the  cold,  frosty  air  was  a  new  wind 
from  heaven.  Snow  was  falling  thickly  on  the  ground. 
It  was  white  like  his  heart  from  its  cleansing.  The  di- 
vineness  seemed  to  carry  him  home.  He  could  sense  the 
hand  of  the  gentle  Saviour  leading  him.  "  To-morrow  I 
will  write  to  my  dear  mother,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  her  of 
my  happiness  and  salvation.  How  she  will  weep  with 
joy  as  she  reads  1  " 

That  night  he  was  again  alone  in  his  room,  but  no 
horrors  now  could  come  to  him.  There  were  angels 
guarding  his  pillow  and  breathing  on  him  fragrance  of 
peace. 


XIII. 

THERE  were  great  preparations  for  the  Christmas 
festivities  at  the  Hinckleys  that  year,  when  Hubert 
should  first  come  back  from  college.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  had  been  away  a  year  instead  of  four  months. 
They  even  wondered  if  he  had  changed  since  they  saw 
him.  How  delightful  it  would  be  to  hear  of  all  he  had 
studied  and  all  he  was  seeing  1  Libbie  had  longed  to  go 
to  college,  when  she  was  a  girl ;  but,  of  course,  they  could 
not  spare  her  from  home.  Now  she  should  hear  all 
about  it,  at  any  rate ;  and  the  joy  that  she  had  wished  for 
herself  she  could  feel  when  talking  with  Hubert.  Mary 
baked  the  kind  of  pies  that  he  liked  and  almost  wept 
tears  into  the  mince-meat ;  but  the  mother  was  happiest 
of  all,  for  she  carried  his  letter  about  with  her,  and  read  it 
often  in  secret, —  his  letter  that  read  like  a  paean  of  joy 
when  his  soul  had  escaped  from  its  bondage.  He  would 
talk  to  her  of  spiritual  things,  teach  her,  no  doubt,  from 
his  learning.  She  had  never  felt  heart  to  heart  with  either 
of  her  boys  the  same  as  she  did  with  Libbie  or  Mary. 
Sam  sometimes  would  talk  of  religion,  but  it  was  not  his 
daily  habit  to  do  so, —  on  Sundays  and  in  a  formal  way, 
perhaps.  But  with  Hubert  she  thought  it  would  be 
different.  He  would  recount  his  experience  throughout, 
and  all  that  he  felt  now  from  day  to  day. 

When  he  came,  it  was  very  dear  to  him  at  first,  sitting 
at  his  old  place  at  the  table  and  having  them  all  listen 
when  he  spoke.  Mary's  cooking  tasted  very  good  after 
the  alien  preparations  of  Mrs.  Newman.  Even  his  father 
and  Sam  gave  him  attention,  and  passed  him  dishes  the 
second  time,  and  listened  as  he  talked  of  the  college,  the 
students  and  the  professors,  and  the  church.  But  what 
made  him  so  shy  about  speaking  of  religion  ? 


Qju  icksand  87 

His  mother  thought,  "He  wishes  to  keep  that  more 
confidential,"  and  waited  till  she  was  alone  with  him. 
She  had  no  chance  for  this  the  first  two  days ;  for  it  was 
not  one  of  the  practices  of  the  family  to  leave  anybody 
alone,  thinking  that  he  might  enjoy  the  privacy.  The 
mother  herself  was  responsible  for  this ;  though  now,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  began  to  resent  seeming  in 
trusions.  It  had  never  been  so  before.  She  herself  had 
often  insisted  that  her  children  should  not  lock  any  door 
against  her,  nor  the  girls  against  each  other.  They 
should  lead  only  open  lives,  she  said ;  not  do  things  of 
which  they  were  ashamed.  No  matter  if  she  came  in  at 
any  time,  they  should  not  feel  the  need  of  concealing  from 
her.  Now  for  the  first  time  she  found  her  teachings 
brought  home.  She  would  go  into  the  front  room  or  even 
Hubert's  bedroom  for  a  confidential  talk,  and  imme 
diately  came  Libbie  and  Mary  trooping  after.  "  What  is 
that?  "  they  would  ask.  "What  were  you  talking  about, 
Hubert  ? " 

The  day  before  Christmas,  however,  both  the  girls 
went  to  Fort  Madison  to  purchase  presents;  and  this 
would  give  her  opportunity.  She  was  working  with  the 
baking  in  the  kitchen,  and  Hubert  would  come  in  to 
watch  —  she  knew :  it  was  one  of  his  favourite  occupations. 

"  You  must  tell  me  about  the  revival,  Hubert,"  she 
began.  "  Was  Mr.  Slater  a  very  wonderful  preacher  ?  " 

Hubert  felt  bashful  and  confused.  Was  this  the  long- 
expected  confidence  with  his  mother,  such  as  he  re 
membered  in  the  preacher's  stones,  that  had  moved  him 
so  at  the  time,  where  the  son  had  fallen  into  his  mother's 
open  arms  and  sobbed  out  his  joy  on  her  breast  ?  He 
tried  to  turn  the  question  off  lightly. 

"  He  was  very  eloquent,  mother ;  and  he  had  travelled 
in  Palestine  and  India,  and  he  told  most  wonderful  sto- 


88  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  There  were  a  great  many  converted,  we  read  in  the 
paper.  Were  you  at  the  mourner's  bench  long  ?  " 

"  Two  nights,"  answered  Hubert,  blushing ;  and  then 
he  spoke  in  glowing  terms  of  the  singing,  and  told  one  or 
two  incidents  of  the  meeting. 

But  Mrs.  Hinckley  brought  him  back  again.  "What 
day  were  you  called  to  go  forward,  Hubert?  You  did 
not  name  the  day  in  your  letter.  I  shall  make  that  day 
the  festival  of  my  heart,"  she  said,  moving  toward  him 
fondly. 

"  It  was  Saturday,  the  i2th  of  December,"  he  answered 
hurriedly. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said,  looking  at  him.  She 
could  see  that  he  was  timid,  and  it  cut  her  to  the  quick ; 
but  she  did  not  show  signs  of  her  hurt. 

"  There  was  very  little,"  he  half  stuttered.  "  There 
were  a  great  many  going  up.  It  is  different  from  here 
in  the  country, —  quieter  and  more  educated  people,  you 
know." 

He  felt  like  a  criminal  when  he  was  saying  it ;  but,  for 
the  life  of  him,  he  could  not  say  more.  And  that,  too, 
after  all  the  confidence  he  had  intended;  and  he  knew 
how  his  mother's  heart  was  yearning.  He  went  on  hur 
riedly  to  tell  her  about  the  church  and  the  pipe  organ, 
and  how  the  people  looked  who  attended,  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  preacher  and  his  stories.  He  told  as  many 
as  he  could  remember  of  the  travelling  ones,  but  not  a 
word  of  those  that  had  moved  him,  of  the  wayward  son 
and  his  mother.  And  all  the  time  he  was  loving  his 
mother  more  and  more, —  loving  her  and  pitying  her  dis 
tress.  He  asked  to  help  her  with  the  cooking,  and  in  all 
ways  tried  to  be  gentle  and  affectionate, —  in  all  ways  but 
the  way  she  wanted.  How  he  wished  that  Sam  would 
come  in,  or  Hiram,  even  though  his  mother  did  resent  it. 


Qji  icksand  89 

At  length  there  was  an  interruption,  but  he  was  unnatural 
that  evening  in  his  gayety. 

And  Hiram  Stubbs, —  how  was  he  getting  on  with  him, 
the  friend  he  had  dreamed  of  converting,  and  to  that 
end  rehearsed  arguments  in  bed  ?  In  the  first  place  he 
did  not  see  much  of  Hiram.  His  mother  kept  him 
closely  at  home  on  the  pretence  of  his  having  a  cold.  To 
be  sure,  Hiram  was  often  at  the  house  ;  but  then,  Mary  or 
Libbie  was  around,  or  more  frequently  all  of  the  family, 
for  Hiram  came  chiefly  in  the  evening  after  the  day's  work 
was  done. 

Once,  however,  they  were  out  skating  on  the  river ;  and 
the  novice  considered  it  his  duty  to  begin. 

"  Did  they  tell  you,  Hiram,  that  I  was  converted  two 
weeks  ago  ? " 

"  Yes,  Libbie  told  me ;  and  your  mother  read  a  part  of 
your  letter." 

"  The  letter  was  all  true,  Hiram." 

"  I  am  always  glad  if  you  are  happy,  Captain." 

That  "  Captain,"  in  the  healthy,  hearty  voice,  made  it 
so  difficult  to  go  on.  It  was  like  Satan  tempting  him  to 
turn  back  to  talk  of  other  worldly  things. 

"  Were  you  ever  converted,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  Not  in  your  way,  my  lad." 

"  But  why  not  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  always  fought  shy  of  it." 

"  It  makes  you  very  happy  ?  "  this  questioningly. 

"I  have  always  been  tolerably  happy,"  said  Hiram. 
"  At  least  as  happy  as  any  religious  people  I  know." 

"  But,  Hiram,  it  takes  away  your  sins." 

"  I  don't  have  any  sins  to  take  away,  Captain.  I  do 
what  I  think  is  right.  I  try  to  love  my  neighbour  as  my 
self,  and  do  make  a  pretty  good  success  of  it." 

"  Everybody  likes  you,  Hiram  ;  and  that's  the  reason  we 
want  you  to  be  saved." 


QO  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  Saved  ?  I'm  not  in  any  danger.  What  shall  I  be 
saved  from  ?  "  asked  Hiram. 

"  From  everlasting  hell-fire,  Hiram,  where  the  souls  of 
the  unconverted  burn." 

"  Well,  there's  no  use  crossing  a  bridge  before  you  get 
to  it,"  said  Hiram ;  "  and  say,  Captain,  you  believe  in  a 
God,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  gasped  the  newly  converted. 

"  And  he  watches  over  the  least  little  sparrow  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  yes:  that's  what  the  Bible  says." 

"  Well,  then,  can't  you  trust  him  to  look  out  for  me  ? " 

"  But  you  have  a  free  will,  Hiram,  a  soul  which  the 
animals  have  not." 

"  Well,  if  God  meant  to  damn  me  because  I  have  a 
soul,  why  did  he  give  me  one  ? "  asked  Hiram. 

They  were  coming  out  on  the  thin  ice  nearer  the  cur 
rent,  and  getting  back  occupied  their  attention.  But  the 
eager  convert  began  again. 

"  You  believe  in  the  Bible,  don't  you,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  Your  mother  doesn't  like  to  have  me  talk  to  you  about 
these  things,  because  she  is  afraid  I  have  a  bad  influence 
on  you,"  replied  Hiram. 

"  Yes,  but  now  I'm  converted ;  and  it's  safe,"  returned 
the  astonished  Hubert. 

"  I've  known  people  to  backslide,"  said  Hiram.  "  Sup 
pose  we  wait  till  next  summer.  Now  here's  a  place  to  be 
racing." 

They  flew  over  the  glistening  ice,  forgetting  all  thoughts 
of  religion.  That  night  after  saying  his  prayers,  while 
lying  by  the  slumbering  Sam,  Hubert  wished  he  had 
said  more  to  Hiram.  He  tried  to  imagine  him  in  the 
next  world,  suffering  the  tortures  of  hell,  while  he  was  in 
heaven,  looking  down  on  him.  He  watched  for  the  con 
tortions  of  his  face,  and  looked  to  see  if  it  was  pleading ; 


Qjuicksand  91 

but  the  face  got  tangled  in  his  dreams,  and  turned  out  to 
be  an  angel's. 

That  was  the  end  of  his  talk  on  religion,  for  soon  he 
was  going  back  to  college.  It  was  getting  to  be  as  well, 
perhaps.  They  did  not  listen  to  him  with  such  attention 
now  when  he  spoke,  Libbie  often  chipping  in  ahead  and 
carrying  off  the  conversation  at  her  pleasure.  He  was 
not  altogether  sorry  when  the  two  weeks  were  over ;  and 
the  parting  was  not  so  doleful  as  it  had  been  in  the  fall, 
though  his  mother  did  cry  the  harder. 


XIV. 

WHILE  Hubert's  life  was  opening  out  at  college, 
things  were  not  entirely  stagnant  in  the  quiet 
stone  house  left  behind ;  though  any  one,  watch 
ing  the  seasons  pass  over,  would  little  suppose  that  things 
could  change  there,  or,  if  change  came,  one  would  think  it 
would  be  like  that  of  the  river  in  the  distance,  flowing  on 
quietly  and  evenly  with  the  landscape  ever  the  same.  Nor 
did  the  people's  outward  persons  change.  There  is,  speak 
ing  vaguely,  a  human  landscape  as  well  as  a  topographical 
one,  and  rivers  of  life  flow  through  it,  changing,  develop 
ing,  stagnating ;  but  the  banks  retain  ever  the  same  con 
tour,  the  same  seasons  pass  regularly  over,  and  casual 
passers-by  will  remark,  "  What  monotony  here  in  the  coun 
try,  here  among  these  unchangeable  people  1 " 

Libbie's  life  was  one  of  rapid  and  whirlpool,  if  the  simile 
is  to  keep  going.  The  banks  were  rigid  and  precipitous 
with  rock,  and  the  water  must  dash  hopeless  against 
them  if  it  would  long  for  a  breath  of  free  wind.  Libbie 
was  ambitious  surely, —  chafing  and  restless  with  ambition. 
Nothing  about  her  was  to  her  liking,  and  yet  she  would 
not  have  anything  different.  That  is,  she  wanted  the 
same  people  always ;  but  these  people  she  would  shape 
for  herself.  To  begin  with,  there  was  her  father.  Why 
did  he  not  make  more  of  a  show  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
take  the  place  that  she  felt  he  deserved  ?  He  knew  more 
than  any  man  in  that  country,  and  yet  no  one  outside  ever 
knew  it.  Why  did  he  not  accept  some  office  ?  He  even 
refused  a  place  on  the  school  board,  and  tried  to  avoid 
being  road  overseer.  The  church  was  the  place  that  gave 
most  honor ;  but  her  father  had  never  joined  the  Metho 
dists,  and  the  Methodists  were  the  only  church  in  the 
neighbourhood.  If  her  father  would  look  higher  even,  he 


Qju  icksand  93 

might  get  into  county  politics.  He  was  known  for  thirty 
miles  around,  travelling  as  he  did  and  building  houses. 
In  the  towns,  too,  they  knew  of  his  furniture.  But  no,  he 
sat  quietly  at  home,  reading  a  few  books  and  always  speak 
ing  to  them  with  affection.  Libbie  loved  her  father  with 
something  approaching  a  passion,  but  with  all  that  he  was 
a  constant  source  of  irritation. 

Her  mother  next, —  her  dear,  devoted,  sweet  mother, — 
why  did  she  worry  and  worry,  and  never  give  herself  any 
rest  until  she  was  broken  down  with  over-weariness  ?  She 
had  two  daughters  to  do  the  work.  Libbie  herself  could 
fly  about,  and  do  twice  the  work  for  their  family.  And  yet 
their  work  was  never  done.  Mother  could  always  find 
more,  and  go  pottering  herself  dizzy  about  it.  And,  while 
she  would  work,  she  would  worry.  Would  it  rain  now, 
and  would  Sam  lose  the  harvest  ?  Was  Sam's  shirt  ironed 
for  Sunday  ?  No  one  could  arrange  Sam's  things  but 
her.  Poor  Sam  1  He  worked  so  hard,  and  had  so  very 
little  for  it.  Or  again,  if  Libbie  was  staying  in  Fort 
Madison  over  night,  now  how  fearful  if  something  should 
happen  to  her  1  The  wheel  might  have  come  off  the  wagon, 
or  they  might  have  been  out  in  that  rain-storm  !  Or  had 
they  ventured  out  on  the  river  ?  She  was  lying  awake 
thinking  in  the  night,  having  a  presentiment  of  something. 
Once  Libbie  had  planned  to  stay  a  week  with  a  friend ; 
but  at  the  end  of  the  third  day  her  mother  had  come  in, 
and  said  they  must  have  her  home.  She  and  Mary  could 
not  sleep  for  worrying.  She  had  dreamed  something 
awful  had  happened.  So  Libbie  had  given  up  a  party, 
and  her  friend  had  snubbed  her  ever  since. 

Then  there  was  Sam, —  great,  sullen,  black-bearded 
Sam,  who  would  always  ask  her  to  go  to  parties  when  she 
had  Oliver  for  company,  and  refuse  to  go  when  she  had 
no  one.  Sam  was  generally  cross  and  bearish,  took  no 


94  Qu  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


interest  in  her  except  to  offer  advice,  came  into  the 
kitchen  on  her  clean  floor  without  so  much  as  looking  at 
his  boots ;  and  still  she  loved  him  and  stood  up  for  him 
against  the  others,  and  worried  herself  to  nervousness  if 
he  looked  a  little  thin  or  coughed  more  than  usual  in  the 
winter. 

Mary, —  she  just  had  to  stop  and  hug  her  whenever  she 
chanced  to  pass  her.  Mary  was  so  patient  and  sweet, 
always  doing  the  things  that  belonged  to  others,  singing 
and  happy  from  morning  till  night.  Mary  should  have 
the  best  husband.  She  deserved  to  be  a  lady,  she  was  so 
good ;  but  she  was  so  modest  that  she  was  happy  as  a  cat 
if  any  one  chose  to  smile  on  her.  She  was  already  half 
in  love  with  Hiram  Stubbs,  a  good  man,  but  stupid  and 
much  older,  simply  because  he  paid  her  attention.  He 
would  like  her  to  do  his  cooking.  That  was  all  Hiram 
Stubbs  wanted. 

It  had  been  a  great  trial  to  Libbie  when  Mary  had 
refused  Minister  Simmons.  That  was  a  brilliant  match, 
and  would  have  been  the  envy  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Besides  she  had  arranged  it  all  herself.  She  felt  very 
noble  in  giving  up  her  lover  to  her  sister.  In  fact,  it  had 
been  more  than  giving  up :  she  had  actually  transplanted 
the  preacher's  affections.  If  she  had  ever  dreamed  that 
Mary  could  refuse  him,  why,  she  would  have  taken  him 
herself,  and  gladly,  had  it  not  been  for  Oliver  Day.  And 
Mary  had  almost  promised,  and  then  backed  out,  proba 
bly  because  she  was  so  timid.  Mary  never  did  have  any 
backbone ;  and  now  mother  would  not  let  her  have  Oliver, 
being  put  out  with  losing  the  minister.  Mary  and  she  had 
had  an  awful  time  that  night,  crying  it  out  in  each  other's 
arms ;  and  Mary  had  sworn  it  was  not  the  fault  of  Hiram. 
Could  it  be  that  Mary  was  a  little  sly  ? 

It  was  past  now,  at  all  events :  there  was  no  use  bring- 


Qji  icksand  95 

ing  it  up.  Mr.  Simmons  had  married  Belle  Green.  She 
was  always  half  crazy  to  get  him,  getting  converted  the 
third  time  just  to  attract  his  attention ;  and,  as  for  Oliver 
Day,  Libbie's  heart  grew  hard  whenever  she  thought  of 
Oliver.  She  had  been  holding  him  off,  waiting  to  get  her 
mother's  consent  She  would  get  it  in  time  if  she  kept 
working,  and  Oliver  had  got  careless  or  something  and 
taken  to  smoking  again.  Libbie  never  would  endure 
smoking.  Her  father  didn't  smoke,  neither  did  Sam. 
She  and  Oliver  quarrelled  for  a  time  about  the  smoking, 
and  Oliver  threw  it  at  her  that  she  was  playing  him  with 
one  eye  on  the  preacher.  In  the  end  he  had  gone  off  to 
Burlington, —  was  doing  very  well  there,  they  had  heard, 
though  some  said  he  had  dropped  his  religion;  and 
there  was  a  hint  he  had  been  seen  playing  billiards.  But 
who  had  been  in  the  billiard  hall  to  see  —  no  church 
member  was  able  to  tell.  So  it  came  that  Libbie  was 
lonely ;  and  Sam  was  calling  her  "  old  maid,"  and  telling 
her  her  nose  was  getting  red. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Libbie  made  a  move  in  an 
other  direction,  this  time  in  industrial  lines.  Now  that 
Hubert  must  be  kept  four  years  in  college,  why  should 
not  she  and  Mary  earn  something  ?  There  was  a  con 
stant  and  heavy  drain  on  the  family  income.  Sam  was 
beginning  to  look  nonplussed.  The  first  plan  was  that 
Mary  should  learn  dressmaking.  She  was  already  taking 
sewing  from  Fort  Madison ;  but  why  not  become  a  skilled 
labourer  ?  The  pay  was  very  much  better.  A  place  was 
found  at  a  good  shop,  and  board  with  the  woman  who 
employed  her.  Mary  was  to  come  home  Saturday  night, 
and  go  back  on  Monday  morning.  She  was  a  good  seam 
stress  already,  and  Miss  Yates  seemed  pleased  to  get  her. 

Then  Libbie  began  to  fret  about  Mary  and  how  she 
was  spending  her  evenings.  Mary  was  sly :  there  was  no 


96  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

doubt  of  it ;  she  would  never  tell  a  thing  till  she  had  been 
questioned,  and  even  then  there  were  suspicions  of  re 
serve.  And  where  was  Hiram  Stubbs  going  so  frequently 
with  his  new  horse  and  buggy?  She  and  her  mother 
watched  him  all  summer.  He  drove  off  regularly  two 
evenings  a  week,  usually  Wednesdays  and  Fridays. 
Libbie  joked  him  about  it  one  day  at  the  well,  and  asked 
him  if  he  was  going  to  get  married,  that  he  was  dress 
ing  himself  up  so  slick.  She  watched  him,  and  he  had 
actually  blushed.  Then  he  asked  her  to  take  a  ride 
that  evening  along  the  river,  and  she  could  not  very  well 
refuse. 

Her  mother  and  she  would  keep  a  lookout,  however. 
If  it  was  found  that  Hiram  and  Mary  were  getting  to  ex 
pect  each  other,  they  would  bring  Mary  home  in  an  in 
stant.  Hiram  would  never  join  the  church, —  they  were 
both  very  certain  on  that  point ;  and  Mary  was  wavering 
always.  She  had  never  been  truly  converted,  although 
she  had  been  baptized  and  was  a  member  of  the  church 
in  good  standing.  Besides,  Mary  could  do  better  than 
Hiram.  She  did  not  realise  her  possibilities.  They 
loved  her  too  dearly  to  see  her  become  the  drudge  for  a 
plodder  like  Hiram,  and  every  gentleman  looked  kindly 
on  Mary. 

Libbie  did  enjoy  the  ride  that  evening,  if  it  was  only 
plain  Hiram  Stubbs.  The  new  moon  was  hanging  over 
the  hills,  and  the  trees  were  mysterious  in  the  shadow. 
How  soothing  was  the  effect  of  the  river !  And  Hiram 
seemed  to  know  the  pretty  places.  He  must  have  come 
here  often  to  know  them  so  well.  Once  he  sang  some 
rolling  sailor  songs.  Libbie  could  imagine  she  smelled 
the  brine  of  the  sea.  Oh,  she  had  never  seen  the  ocean  I 
just  forever  this  stupid  prairie  I  Hiram  always  seemed  to 
have  new  stories.  It  was  a  pity  he  did  not  have  better 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  97 

breeding,  at  least  he  might  go  to  church.  And  then  she 
remembered  his  smoking.  A  sailor  wedded  to  his  pipe  1 
Still,  she  was  looking  at  the  sinking  moon  from  the 
doorstep  after  his  cheery  good  night.  Mary  was  prob 
ably  enjoying  her  buggy  rides  along  by  the  river  road. 
And  now  the  moonlight  nights  were  coming  on.  It 
was  so  lonely  here  on  the  farm,  thinking  of  Oliver  Day. 
She  had  heard  to-day  that  he  now  had  other  company. 
Some  forward  town  girl,  no  doubt.  Hiram  made  her 
think  a  little  of  Oliver.  What  a  nice  time  Mary  was  hav 
ing  in  town,  seeing  so  many  new  people !  And  mother  out 
here  worrying  herself  to  death  1  But  they  would  suffer 
anything  if  Mary  enjoyed  it.  They  would  put  themselves 
out  always  for  her. 


XV. 

MARY'S  life, —  how  was  that  river  flowing,  the 
brown  smiling  brook  in  the  meadow  ?  It  is  one 
of  the  strange  things  of  families  that  none  of 
^the  Hinckleys  ever  stopped  to  consider  that  Mary  was 
beautiful.  Other  people  saw  it  at  once,  but  at  home  it 
passed  by  unnoticed.  Libbie  was  stylish  and  handsome 
in  her  best  time,  and  no  one  was  ever  ashamed  of  Mary. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  hardly  thought  of  Mary  at  all 
unless  she  chanced  to  be  missing.  Then  there  was  a 
great  cry  and  hunting. 

Mary's  face  was  brown  as  a  nut,  though  a  tincture  of 
wine  filtered  through  it.  She  had  brown  eyes,  too,  black- 
brown,  and  glistening  like  clear  water  where  it  hollows 
itself  a  deep  pool.  Her  hair  was  wavy  brown,  too.  "  My 
little  brown  bird  "  Hiram  called  her ;  and  he  thought  her 
voice  like  that  of  the  quail  when  he  heard  them  purring 
in  the  wood.  Mary  was  not  little  in  size,  being  of  the 
average  height  and  weight.  It  was  only  that  those  who 
loved  her  always  thought  of  her  as  being  small. 

Perhaps  her  first  awakening  from  childhood  was  when, 
sobbing  at  the  window  long  ago,  she  had  seen  her  tall  hero 
march  from  her.  Perhaps,  too,  her  girlhood  had  ended 
when  down  in  the  fence-corner  at  the  corn  planting  she 
had  seen  the  strong  man  clutch  her  skirt,  trembling  with 
the  tenderness  of  passion.  Otherwise  life  had  gone  easily 
on.  It  was  as  if  the  brook  among  the  hills  had  done 
nothing  but  play  with  the  squirrels  until  suddenly  a  prec 
ipice  had  been  encountered  and  a  frightful  plunge 
brought  her  into  the  open.  Then  the  quiet  path  under 
the  sky  had  succeeded,  with  the  quiet  grass  rush-like 
on  the  margin.  Then  a  roar  of  mighty  waters  was  heard, 
and  the  meadow  brook  swept  away  hurling. 


Qji  icksand  99 

She  did  not  tell  Hiram  that  she  loved  him  at  the  time, 
nor  indeed  for  many  months  after.  Probably  it  was  be 
cause  she  did  not  know  it  herself,  and  afterward  it  was 
hardly  fitting  to  speak  of.  It  was  a  big  thing  to  love  such 
a  man  as  Hiram  Stubbs, —  something  to  be  reverent  over 
and  holy. 

She  often  pictured  him  to  herself  just  as  she  had  seen 
him  on  the  day  of  the  first  home-coming, —  that  was  the 
word  she  always  used.  She  was  a  girl  of  fifteen,  straight 
and  lithe  as  a  reed :  Hiram  had  said  she  was  so.  She 
was  down  in  the  blackberry  field,  standing  beside  the  rail 
fence.  She  had  long  gloves  made  of  stockings  on  her 
arms, —  they  were  to  protect  her  from  the  briers, —  and 
she  wore  her  pink  sunbonnet  that  day.  Then  she  was 
looking  down  the  road,  longing.  What  had  she  been 
longing  for  ?  A  man  turned  the  corner  beyond  the  bridge, 
coming  up  the  road  from  Fort  Madison.  He  was  a  stal 
wart,  handsome,  fine  fellow,  and  walked  with  a  rolling 
step.  He  was  whistling  as  he  climbed  the  hill.  She 
might  have  been  afraid  if  he  had  not  whistled.  At 
least,  she  might  have  been  afraid  before  she  saw  his 
merry  blue  eyes.  He  leaped  the  fence  almost  at  a 
bound.  It  seemed  he  hardly  touched  the  rails.  "  You 
are  Mary  Hinckley,"  he  cried.  "  Do  you  remember 
Hiram,  little  Mary  ? "  How  brown  and  firm  his  cheek 
was  when  he  kissed  her  1  She  scented  a  faint  fra 
grance  about  it.  No  doubt  it  was  only  tobacco,  but 
she  had  loved  the  dream  of  it  ever  since ;  and  Libbie  had 
been  astonished  one  time  to  find  her  smelling  of  an  old 
yellow  pouch,  with  a  vague  eastern  light  in  her  eyes.  Even 
now  she  would  ask  Hiram  to  smoke,  but  never  a  word  to 
Libbie  or  mother.  No  wonder  they  said  she  was  sly. 

Hiram  had  been  in  her  life  ever  since  that  kiss  in  the 
blackberry  field.  He  had  laughed  then  because  she  had 


ioo  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

been  eating,  and  he  told  her  that  she  tasted  of  black 
berries.  Other  men  had  been  in  her  life  as  well, —  Sam 
and  her  father  always, —  and  they  were  gentle  and  good  to 
her,  too ;  but  Hiram,  someway,  was  more  gentle.  They 
did  the  best  that  they  knew ;  but  what  could  they  know  of 
her  feelings  ?  Hiram  always  understood. 

She  used  to  go  down  to  his  cabin  to  take  him  things 
they  had  baked.  He  never  asked  her  in  when  she  came 
alone,  but  he  often  took  a  little  walk  back  with  her  or 
asked  her  to  come  into  the  garden  to  see  some  new  inven 
tion  of  his.  Hiram  was  always  inventing  something,  a 
barrier  to  keep  the  squash  bugs  from  the  melons,  or  a 
chicken-coop,  or  maybe  a  trellis  for  morning-glories.  All 
the  plants  seemed  to  love  Hiram,  and  all  of  them  did  their 
best  growing  with  him.  What  was  she  at  that  time  but  a 
plant  ?  And  what  should  she  do  but  grow,  too,  and  love 
him? 

Then  he  taught  her  skating,  while  Hubert  was  learning, 
and  once  he  had  shown  her  how  to  row ;  but  her  mother 
and  Libbie  made  such  a  fuss  that  she  could  not  go  on  the 
river  often.  To  be  sure,  she  went  with  Libbie  often ;  but, 
then,  Libbie  had  to  learn  how  to  row  so  long  as  the  cur 
rent  was  gentle.  Still,  Hiram  seemed  always  to  think  of 
her  in  the  end,  and  give  her  a  turn  at  the  pleasure. 

In  the  winter  he  came  up  in  the  evenings  to  stay  with 
her  while  the  others  went  to  meeting.  She  had  to  cook 
for  the  ministers,  and  anyway  did  not  care  for  revivals. 
They  made  her  cry,  and  cry  without  anything  in  particular 
to  cry  about.  She  sometimes  thought  it  might  be  because 
Hiram  was  going  to  hell ;  but  then  she  would  think  some 
thing  purposely  that  was  enormously  wicked,  so  that  she 
would  be  in  hell,  too,  with  Hiram,  she  said,  and  they 
could  comfort  the  others  who  did  not  understand,  and 
they  would  not  much  mind  the  tortures,  when  they  once 


Qjiicksand  101 

got  used  to  it  a  little,  knowing  that  their  souls  could  not 
die  and  they  could  be  there  always  together.  Ir  was  sad 
to  think  of  her  mother  and  Libbie  in  heaven,*  feeling  so 
sorry  for  her.  '  •'  >  * ,;. 

When  they  had  all  gone  to  the  meetings,  Hiram  would 
help  her  with  the  cooking.  Hiram  was  as  handy  as  a 
woman.  He  could  peel  potatoes  and  apples  much  faster 
than  she  could ;  and,  then,  he  was  always  at  his  joking,  put 
ting  the  apple-seeds  on  the  stove  and  naming  them  for  her 
and  some  school-boy,  to  see  which  would  run  away  first. 
She  never  cared  much  for  the  school-boys ;  but  she  pre 
tended  to  him  that  she  did,  just  a  little. 

Everything  had  changed  that  day  of  the  planting.  She 
had  left  all  girlish  carelessness  behind  her.  Now  she 
must  think  of  every  action,  and  how  Hiram  would  be  tak 
ing  it,  maybe,  and  whether  her  mother  would  allow  it, 
and  what  Libbie  would  say  if  she  knew.  It  was  very 
troublesome  and  embarrassing :  a  hundred  times  it  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes.  Before,  she  had  hardly  known  what  it 
was  to  blush,  except  when  some  one  praised  her  greatly ; 
and  that  was  a  pleasant  sensation.  But  now  she  could 
feel  the  warming  rush  often,  and  invariably  at  the  times 
she  wished  to  appear  composed,  when  she  had  been 
thinking  apart  from  everything  that  was  said.  A  year 
had  gone  on  in  this  uncertain  manner,  and  Hubert  was 
away  with  his  studies.  She  was  almost  glad  of  the 
chance  to  take  up  dressmaking,  though  she  was  very  fond 
of  her  home.  It  would  give  her  a  chance  to  be  away, 
free  from  all  the  eyes  she  felt  on  her.  Then  Hiram  came 
with  his  new  buggy.  But  why  should  Hiram  not  come  ? 
Was  he  not  the  whole  life  she  turned  to  ? 

One  night  they  were  driving  under  the  full  moon.  It 
was  the  second  night  he  had  come.  The  first  he  had 
been  very  jolly,  but  to-night  he  was  more  silent  and 


102  Qjiicksand 

gentle.  He  asked  her  if  she  was  tired  or  was  chilly ;  and 
his  votee  was  -half  husky,  half  mellow.  They  were  down 
on  the'  river  rdad:  The  full  moon  was  bouncing  in  the  rip 
ples  oFtke*  river')  another  moon  steady  overhead.  For  a 
long  time  he  had  hot  said  anything  to  her.  The  horse 
was  walking  slower  and  slower.  Then  she  became  con 
scious  of  his  eyes, —  the  eyes  she  loved  more  than  life. 
They  were  fixed  so  steadily  upon  her,  burning  like  fire 
opals  in  the  moonlight. 

She  tried  to  speak  of  the  beauty  of  the  river,  but  her 
thoughts  could  not  formulate  the  words.  Then  came  his 
voice  deep  and  steady, —  God's  voice  not  sweeter  in 
pardon. 

'*  When  are  you  going  to  speak  to  me,  Mary  ?  When 
may  I  tell  you  how  I  love  you  ? " 

It  was  a  silly  thing  for  her  face  to  do  when  she  was 
feeling  so  happy, —  a  stupid,  silly  face  to  begin  crying. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  the  real  crying :  it  was  only  her  lips 
that  would  quiver.  No  matter,  her  face  held  up  to  his, 
and  eyes  and  lips  begged  for  his  kisses.  Hiram's  face 
was  firm  and  cool  to  touch ;  but  his  arms  were  warm  and 
protecting,  and  love's  fire  glowed  at  his  heart. 

She  had  never  been  happy  before.  The  life  river  had 
never  rested  in  its  flowing.  Now  it  lay  calm  as  the  sea, 
and  all  the  universe  reflected  on  its  surface. 


XVI. 

IT  was  some  one  driving  up  behind  them  that  brought 
them  to  a  consciousness  of  their  surroundings.  Then 
they  noticed  that  their  horse  had  stopped,  and  was 
contentedly  browsing  on  some  bushes  that  grew  in  the 
edge  of  the  road.  This  made  them  laugh  when  the 
interrupting  team  was  well  out  of  hearing.  They  thought 
they  had  never  known  real  laughter  before.  This  gen 
tle  flowing  of  liquid  sounds  was  different  from  former 
panting. 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Hiram,  for  keeping  you 
waiting  so  long  without  telling  ? "  asked  Mary,  her  face 
snuggling  up  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Forgive  you,  Mary  1 "  he  returned.  "  It  was  all  my 
stupidity  not  to  ask  you.  I  was  afraid  you  would  give 
me  the  mitten,  Mary." 

"  I  have  loved  you  always,  I  guess,  ever  since  I  was  a 
little  girl." 

"  I  guess  you  didn't  always  love  me  like  this,"  he  said, 
almost  stopping  the  horse  again  to  show  her. 

Then  they  began  laughing  again  and  talking  to  each 
other  like  children.  It  was  curious  how  all  the  language 
of  formal  life  dropped  out  of  their  vocabulary  altogether ; 
and  only  the  old  child  words  were  left,  and  spoken  with 
the  old,  childish  accents,  long  dwelling  on  the  soft  sound 
ing  vowels  and  the  tender  rising  inflections.  How  un 
fortunate  that  there  can  be  no  spelling  for  that  universal 
idiom  for  yes,  that  sweetness  of  m's  and  of  Ws  so  neces 
sary  in  the  language  of  love-making  1 

It  was  when  they  were  back  in  the  town,  the  flickering 
light  in  the  avenue  of  elms  chasing  across  their  emo 
tional  faces,  that  Hiram  thought  of  practical  things,  and 
asked  when  they  should  speak  to  her  father  and  mother 
and  get  their  consent  to  the  marriage. 


104  Qjuicksand 

"  Oh,  not  yet,  not  yet !  "  pleaded  Mary,  her  voice  for  the 
first  time  sounding  troubled. 

"  But,  Mary,  is  it  right  not  to  tell  them,  to  go  on  this 
way  in  secret  ?  "  Here  he  almost  stopped  the  horse  right 
in  town  to  tell  her  why  he  did  not  say  darling  or  dearest 
or  any  of  the  conventional  phrases,  because  just  simple 
"  Mary  "  had  always  been  sweeter  to  him. 

"  I  like  c  Hiram  '  best,  too,"  she  said  softly,  and  almost 
went  into  a  pout  because  the  moon  would  shine  out,  the 
horse  now  dragging  them  through  the  open. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on  after  a  time,  when  Hiram  had 
turned  down  a  by-street  not  in  the  direction  of  Miss  Yates's 
house  at  all, —  "  you  see,  it's  this  way,  Hiram.  It's  not 
'cause  I  want  to  have  any  secrets  from  mother  and  Libbie. 
I  love  them  very  dearly,  Hiram.  But,  someway,  just  for 
a  little  bit  of  a  time,  I  want  to  have  something  that  they 
can't  be  talking  about  as  if  it  were  theirs,  too.  That's 
your  love,  you  know,  Hiram.  I  don't  want  them  asking 
questions :  there's  a  difference  between  secrets  and  keep 
ing  one's  own  confidences,  isn't  there  ?  Well,  I've  never 
had  anything  that  was  just  mine  before.  Wait  a  little 
while,  Hiram,  anyway  till  father  comes  home." 

"  It  seems  like  deception,  though,"  said  Hiram. 

"  No,  it  isn't  deception, —  it's  just  not  telling,  that's  all; 
and,  Hiram,  you  know  the  news  will  hurt  mother  terribly. 
Maybe  she  won't  ever  let  me  marry  you  at  all.  Because 
you  know  you  are  an  atheist,  though  I  don't  mind  that  a 
bit.  Maybe  I'm  an  atheist,  too.  Sometimes  I'm  shocked 
to  think  I'm  a  Methodist." 

"  You  needn't  be  shocked,  from  the  way  you  talk,"  he 
said  fondly.  "  And,  Mary,  I  want  it  understood  that  you 
can  be  a  Methodist  or  anything  you  want;  and  I'll  never 
hurt  your  feelings  in  that.  All  that  I  ask  is  your  love." 

Here  they  came  to  a  very  shady  place  under  some 
oaks. 


Qjiicksand  105 

"  It  would  hurt  mother,  though ;  and  I  don't  like  to  do 
that.  Let's  wait  till  I  can  break  it  to  her  gently." 

"  It  seems  more  the  man's  place  to  speak  first." 

"  But,  if  we  told  right  away,  she  might  make  me  stop 
having  you  come  to  see  me ;  and  I  couldn't  let  you  come 
if  she  told  me  not  to." 

"Well,  have  your  way,  little  Mary.  I  suppose  you 
always  will." 

She  laughed  again,  silvery  as  the  moonlight.  "I've 
never  had  my  way  before.  It's  awfully  nice,  Hiram, 
isn't  it  ? 

"  Libbie  will  be  mad,  too,  I  guess :  she  says  she  never 
will  marry  a  man  who  smokes." 

"  What  do  you  say  about  smoking,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  love  it.  I  suppose  maybe  that's  because  you 
do  it,  Hiram." 

"  I  guess  father  likes  you,"  she  said,  when  they  were 
ready  for  talking ;  "  and  Hubert  is  fond  of  you,  too.  You 
know  he's  coming  home  now,  next  Thursday." 

"  This  is  Miss  Yates's  house,"  replied  Hiram,  gloomily. 

"  So  it  is,  and  not  a  light  left.  Be  careful :  they  may  be 
looking  from  the  windows." 

He  leaped  out  to  lift  her  down.  Perhaps  her  skirts 
caught  on  the  seat,  he  seemed  to  be  holding  her  in  his 
arms. 

"Good-night,  Hiram.  You  may  bring  in  mother's 
things  day  after  to-morrow.  You  won't  have  time  till 
evening,  I  suppose.  But  that  will  do  very  well."  She 
was  walking  up  the  steps  from  the  gate,  quite  a  young 
lady  of  propriety,  a  very  stylish  little  lady,  Lady  Mary. 

Hiram  went  thoughtfully  home.  This  secrecy  went 
against  his  conscience.  Still,  the  poor  little  girl  should 
not  be  teased  all  the  time.  There  was  no  harm  in  waiting 
through  the  summer.  Then,  when  they  did  strike,  they 


io6  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

would  strike  hard ;  and  he  would  plan  for  an  addition  to 
his  house,  and,  please  God,  they  would  be  married  by 
Christmas.  Hiram  was  that  kind  of  an  atheist  who 
thinks  of  God  only  when  he  is  happy. 

He  blushed,  however,  a  little  later,  when  Libbie  began 
to  joke  him  about  taking  so  many  buggy  rides.  He 
avoided  Hubert  a  little,  too,  that  summer,  though  that 
seemed  hardly  necessary,  since  Hubert  was  avoiding  him. 
Hubert  made  excuse  of  doing  some  Greek  and  Latin, 
though  they  did  find  time  to  go  swimming  twice  a  week 
regularly,  in  the  river.  In  reality,  Hubert's  religion  was 
the  bar  that  at  that  time  was  placed  between  them. 

So  the  summer  moved  on  toward  its  end,  and  their 
happiness  ripened  with  autumn. 


XVII. 

THE  Hinckleys  were  seated  around  the  lamp  of 
the  sitting-room  table  one  evening  late  in  October. 
There  were  only  four  of  them  now.  They  were 
almost  used  to  the  loneliness.  Sam  was  helping  his 
mother  with  some  carpet  rags,  winding  up  the  big  balls 
for  her.  Mr.  Hinckley  was  reading  his  paper,  and  Libbie 
deep  in  a  sensational  novel.  Hiram  Stubbs  came  in 
through  the  kitchen,  but  they  thought  of  nothing  unusual. 
He  seemed  somewhat  restless  to-night,  however;  and, 
when  Mr.  Hinckley  went  into  the  kitchen  to  look  at  the 
clock,  he  followed  him  rather  abruptly,  and  was  a  little  bit 
breathless  in  speaking. 

"  Mr.  Hinckley,  could  I  see  you  and  Mrs.  Hinckley  for 
a  little  time  ?  I'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you  alone." 

Mr.  Hinckley  turned  on  him  with  surprise,  but,  seeing 
that  Hiram  had  something  to  say,  walked  without  a  word 
to  the  sitting-room. 

"  Elizabeth,"  he  said,  "  will  you  come  into  the  kitchen 
a  moment  ?  " 

"  Has  that  pail  begun  to  leak  again  ?  "  she  asked,  rising 
hastily,  though  she  felt  this  was  not  the  real  trouble. 

"  Hiram  would  like  to  speak  with  you  and  me  alone  for 
a  moment,"  said  the  husband,  closing  the  door. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  stiffened  immediately.  "  I  am  sure," 
she  said  formally  to  Hiram,  "  that  Mr.  Hinckley  and  I 
have  no  secrets  from  our  son  and  daughter."  And  then 
she  faltered  for  a  moment.  "  Is  it  anything  about  Hu 
bert  ? "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"It  is  about  Mary,"  answered  Hiram, —  " about  Mary 
and  me." 

"  Come  right  into  the  sitting-room,  Hiram,"  she  said 
formally  again,  and  leading  the  way.  "Anything  that 


io8  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

concerns  our  daughter  Mary  also  concerns  her  brother 
and  sister."  Already  she  had  reopened  the  door. 

Hiram  flushed  red  with  anger,  and  stood  where  he  had 
been  by  the  table. 

But  Mr.  Hinckley  spoke  to  him  kindly.  "  As  she  says, 
Hiram,  anything  that  concerns  Mary  concerns  us  all. 
Come  in,  and  let  us  have  open  speaking." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  follow.  Hiram  came 
in,  and  sat  down.  Libbie  looked  up  from  her  novel,  but 
Mrs.  Hinckley  and  Sam  continued  their  work. 

"  Since  I  cannot  see  you  alone,"  began  Hiram,  awk 
wardly,  "as  I  have  asked  to  do,  I  wish  to  ask  you  and 
Mr.  Hinckley  for  your  daughter  Mary  in  marriage."  He 
spoke  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  lesson  carefully  learned  and 
rehearsed;  but  he  spoke  it  like  a  true  sailor,  who  is 
accustomed  to  address  his  superior  officer. 

There  was  a  tremor  of  excitement  went  round  the  circle, 
visible  even  to  his  embarrassed  notice.  Libbie  clasped 
her  hands  tightly,  and  seemed  bracing  herself  after  a 
shock.  Sam  looked  up  a  moment  disturbed,  and  then 
turned  his  gaze  on  his  mother.  Mrs.  Hinckley  continued 
to  give  her  attention  to  the  carpet  rags,  but  her  hand  was 
shaking  so  violently  that  her  needle  could  not  be  held  to 
the  cloth.  Mr.  Hinckley  sat  still  for  a  moment. 

"  You  surprise  us  greatly,  Hiram,"  he  said.  "  You  are 
so  much  older  than  Mary." 

"  Twelve  years,"  answered  Hiram,  mechanically. 

"  We  have  never  thought  of  Mary's  marrying,  exactly. 
She  seems  to  us  in  many  ways  a  child." 

"  She  is  twenty-two  years  old,"  answered  Hiram. 

"  I  should  think  you  had  better  get  Mary's  consent 
first,"  put  in  Libbie,  nervously. 

"I  have  got  it,"  said  Hiram,  steadily,  still  looking 
toward  Mr.  Hinckley,  while  Libbie  sank  back  with  a  gasp. 


Qjjicksand  109 

Mrs.  Hinckley  here  took  up  the  point.  "  How  long, — 
if  we  may  be  permitted  to  ask, —  how  long  has  this  clan 
destine  relation  been  kept  up  between  you  and  Mary  ? " 

"  I  asked  her  first  a  year  ago  last  May,"  said  Hiram ; 
"  but  she  would  not  listen  to  me  then,  and  I  asked  her 
again  last  June." 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Libbie,  excitedly.  "  And  she  would 
not  tell  me,  though  I  asked  her  over  and  over.  I'll  never 
forgive  her." 

"  You  asked  her,  I  presume,  at  the  time  Mr.  Simmons 
was  paying  her  attentions,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  with  some 
acidity. 

"  I  thought,  as  you  all  did,  that  Mr.  Simmons  was 
paying  Libbie  attentions,"  said  Hiram,  honestly. 

"  How  do  you  know  what  we  thought  ?  "  But  here  Mrs. 
Hinckley  interrupted  herself.  She  had  too  much  respect 
for  her  dignity  to  stoop  to  a  quarrel  with  a  neighbour. 

"  I  am  not  rich,  I  know,"  began  Hiram,  anxious  to  get 
down  to  business ;  "  but  I  own  my  place,  and  have  some 
money  ahead, —  some  six  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  I  am 
going  to  build  a  frame  front  to  my  house.  That  will 
make  a  parlour  and  bedroom.  I  know  I  am  older  and 
have  not  so  much  learning  as  Mary ;  but  she  is  satisfied 
with  me,  and  I  care  "  — 

"We  shall  speak  to  Mary  herself  about  this,"  Mrs. 
Hinckley  broke  in  at  this  point.  "  Mr.  Hinckley  and  I 
are  very  much  grieved  to  think  she  has  kept  this  from  us 
in  this  manner.  We  always  give  our  children  every  con 
fidence,  and  we  expect  the  same  in  return  from  them.  I 
should  even  have  expected  of  you  to  be  more  frank  with 
me  in  this  matter,  after  all  Mr.  Hinckley  has  done  for 
you." 

"  It  was  not  that  Mary  and  I  would  be  deceiving  you, 
Mrs.  Hinckley  "— 


no  Qjiicksand 

"  It  was  a  deception.     That  is  the  very  word." 

"  We  did  not  think  of  it  as  deception,  though  we  did 
think  of  it  as  secret,"  began  Hiram,  patiently,  again. 
"  It  seemed  very  dear  to  us  at  first,  too  dear  to  talk  about 
to  any  one." 

"  Not  to  her  own  sister,"  sobbed  Libbie,  "  and  her 
mother,  and  those  who  love  her  most  of  all.  And  I 
hinted  it  to  her,  and  she  deceived  me.  I  suspected  some 
thing  wrong  all  along." 

"  I  do  not  acknowledge  a  wrong,"  said  Hiram.  "  The 
secret  was  ours  to  keep,  if  we  chose.  It  concerned  us 
more  than  any  one  else." 

"  I  knew  her  head  would  be  turned  if  we  let  her  get 
away  from  our  watching,"  wailed  Libbie. 

"  Mary  is  easily  influenced,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  inter 
rupting  with  dignity. 

"  Why,  she  says  she  has  cared  for  me  ever  since  she 
was  a  little  girl,"  blurted  Hiram. 

"  Our  chief  reason  for  objection,"  Mrs.  Hinckley  went 
on,  without  apparently  noticing  his  remark,  "  the  great 
objection  with  Mr.  Hinckley  and  all  of  us,  is  that  you  are 
an  infidel,  Hiram." 

"  Infidel  means  unfaithful,  I  believe,"  said  Hiram, 
stiffening  in  turn.  "  I  have  never  professed  faith  in 
religion." 

"  Our  daughter  to  marry  an  atheist  1  How  could  we 
consider  such  a  thing  1  How  can  you  be  so  bold  as  to 
propose  it !  "  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  with  hysterical  excite 
ment. 

"  An  atheist,"  said  Hiram,  calmly,  "  is  one  who  believes 
in  no  God.  No  one  has  ever  heard  me  say,  Mrs.  Hinck 
ley,  that  I  do  not  believe  in  a  God." 

"You  don't,  and  you  know  it,"  snapped  Libbie;  "and 
you  smoke  that  nasty  old  pipe." 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  1 1 1 

Hiram  smiled,  but  answered  quite  gently :  "  What  I 
believe  or  do  not  believe  about  God,  this  is  no  time  or 
place  to  make  statement.  As  for  smoking  the  pipe,  Mary 
does  not  object  to  that.  Instead,  she  likes  to  have  me ; 
and  I  will  not  smoke  in  the  house  when  her  mother  or 
sister  come  to  see  her." 

"  I'll  never  come,  so  there  1  "  snapped  Libbie. 

"  It  is  useless  to  talk  of  what  you  will  or  won't  do," 
spoke  up  Mrs.  Hinckley,  calmly,  "  when  nothing  as  yet 
has  been  arranged.  We  will  need  some  time  to  consider 
this  matter.  Mr.  Hinckley  and  I  must  talk  it  over,  and 
also  consult  with  the  children.  As  for  Mary  herself,  we 
will  go  in  for  her  to-morrow.  I  can  hardly  understand 
what  you  tell  me,  but  I  have  always  known  she  was 
easily  influenced." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Hinckley,  kindly,  "  we  will  need  to 
talk  it  over,  Hiram.  I  have  always  known  you  to  be  an 
honest,  straightforward  fellow." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  those  who  would  be  glad  to  get 
Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  severely. 

"  But  I  do  wish  you  were  a  member  of  the  church, 
Hiram.  I  have  often  said  to  you  that  I  wished  it,"  con 
tinued  the  man,  as  if  he  had  not  been  interrupted. 

"  I  suppose  it  may  have  something  to  do  with  my  early 
training,"  said  Hiram.  "  My  father,  you  know,  was  not  a 
believer." 

"  I'm  sure  Mr.  Hinckley  and  I  did  all  we  could  till  you 
took  it  into  your  head  to  go  to  sea,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"  You  asked  me  to  go,"  was  on  his  lips ;  but  he  had  too 
much  to  gain  to  make  them  angry.  He  could  afford  a 
little  silence  now. 

"  Then  I  can  hope  you  will  consider  the  matter,"  he 
said,  rising ;  and  here  his  voice  took  a  tone  of  gentleness. 
"  Don't  think  of  Mary  severely  because  she  did  not  tell 


H2  Qjiicksand 

you  before.  It  was  my  fault,  if  it  was  hers.  We  couldn't 
bear  to  speak  any  sooner.  Besides,  Mr.  Hinckley  was 
away  all  summer." 

"  I  was  not  away,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley ;  "  and  Sam  was 
not  away,  her  natural  protector." 

"  It  was  an  affair  for  father,"  mumbled  Sam,  speaking 
for  the  first  time  that  evening. 

"  And  do  not  consider  it  your  place  as  yet  to  say  what 
we  shall  do  or  shall  not  do  with  our  daughter.  We  can 
take  care  of  our  family  affairs.  We  know  each  other  well 
enough  to  do  that."  Her  voice  was  rising  and  getting 
shriller. 

"  I  will  say  good-night,"  said  Hiram,  quietly,  turning  to 
speak  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Hinckley's  high-strained  voice  went  on,  more  easily 
because  he  was  beyond  hearing.  She  was  in  a  fit  of 
scolding  hysteria.  "  You  need  not  hurry  to  come  back, 
Hiram  Stubbs,  an  infidel,  an  atheist,  though  he  denies 
it!  Never  has  he  been  seen  inside  the  church  in  this 
State,  staying  home  and  tempting  our  Mary  to  sinfulness  1 
Our  Mary,  that  I  have  wept  for  and  prayed  for  when 
every  other  mortal  was  sleeping  1  that  I've  nursed  when 
sick,  and  slaved  for;  and  him,  too,  the  underhanded 
traitor  1  I've  been  like  a  mother  to  him,  baked  his  bread 
and  cooked  his  food  and  always  given  him  a  place  by  our 
fireside.  The  ungrateful,  unbelieving  scoundrel  1  I  see 
now  why  she  was  never  properly  converted,  never  re 
ceived  the  true  blessing  of  God.  Like  as  not  she'll  go  to 
hell-fire  yet.  She  will  if  she  ever  marries  him.  She 
shan't  marry  him,  she  shan't  1  We  need  her  at  home  to 
do  the  work.  I  am  the  only  one  who  can  help  her, —  her 
mother,  the  mother  that  raised  her." 

The  three  moved  about  much  as  usual,  paying  no  heed 
to  her  words,  letting  the  high  shrill  go  on,  knowing  it 
would  stop  when  she  began  sobbing. 


Qjuicksand  113 

"  There  !  he's  set  mother  into  one  of  her  spells.  Why 
can't  he  keep  his  spiteful  face  at  home  ?  "  sputtered  Libbie. 

"  You'd  better  go  and  heat  some  water,"  said  Sam. 
"  She'll  need  it  when  she  is  through." 

Mr.  Hinckley  read  or  pretended  to  read  his  paper  till 
the  breathless  falsetto  broke  down  and  his  wife  began 
violent  weeping.  Then  he  went  over  to  her  kindly,  putting 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Go  to  bed,  Elizabeth, —  go  to 
bed.  We  will  talk  it  over  in  the  morning." 

Hiram  was  away  by  the  river.  For  one  night  he  could 
not  be  heard  whistling. 


XVIII. 

LET  us  go  back  to  those  peaceful  groves  of  learning 
at  the  college  where  family  love  and  strife  do  not 
enter,  but  the  world  moves  on  in  even  commune,  and 
citizens  manoeuvre  their  Liliputian  democracy,  and  quiet 
monks  pore  over  old  volumes.  The  life  was  taking  vital 
hold  of  Hubert  Hinckley.  He  was  growing  like  a  young 
tree  in  summer.  He  could  not  tell  where  he  was  happier, 
whether  it  was  in  the  class-room  where  his  thoughts  were 
developing  daily,  or  in  the  literary  society  with  his  mates 
whom  he  was  beginning  to  know  as  his  equals,  working 
on  the  debates  or  orations  or  scheming  their  miniature 
politics,  or  again  in  the  dusty  town  library  that  still  held 
great  treasures  for  him, —  fiction  that  took  him  into  new 
worlds  and  made  him  familiar  with  strangers,  poetry  that 
mellowed  his  soul  and  gave  him  a  breath  of  the  universe, 
history  that  made  him  ponder  as  he  saw  the  narrowness 
of  things  he  had  supposed  all-encompassing,  philosophy 
that  set  him  to  reasoning  and  encouraged  his  freedom  and 
daring.  Or  perhaps,  it  was  not  in  the  town  library  so 
much  as  in  the  haze  of  the  Indian  summer,  as  he  wandered 
with  a  comrade  through  the  fields  and  felt  the  blue  dim 
ness  of  distance  and  the  mellowness  of  the  near  sunshine 
as  he  talked  out  his  heart  to  his  friend,  receiving  no  cau 
tion  to  stop  nor  feeling  a  shame  in  expression.  The  life 
here, —  how  it  was  free  air  to  him  1  how  it  made  him  breathe, 
speak,  and  grow  1  The  home  life, —  how  it  had  cramped 
him  in  1  and  that,  too,  because  they  had  always  known  him 
and  loved  him.  He  began  to  see  how  it  was  in  the  place 
where  he  had  grown  up  from  a  child.  They  had  known 
him  as  a  child,  had  loved  him  for  his  childlike  ways. 
Then  he  had  begun  to  put  childish  things  from  him,  and 
they  could  not  understand  that.  Even  Hiram's  generous 


Qjiicksand  115 

treatment  was  binding.  He,  the  boy,  did  not  longer 
want  treatment.  He  wanted  acceptance  as  a  mind,  a  free 
centre  and  source  of  free  thought,  and  free  will  that  no 
one  should  question.  How  could  home  people  know  of 
this  need,  this  wonderful  growth  spreading  within  him  ? 
Hiram  could  reason  that  it  was  there,  perhaps  his  father 
could  recognise  it ;  and  these  two  would  leave  him  in  long 
silence.  But  as  for  growing  with  him,  as  for  sensing 
his  young  pulses,  they  were  become  rigid  with  age.  He 
needed  youth  of  his  own  spirit.  A  father  or  wise  teacher 
can  do  much,  but  the  young  man  must  know  his  young 
equals.  His  mother  and  the  women  his  sisters,  they  who 
loved  him  most  of  all  in  the  world, —  alas  !  they  were  the 
ones  to  most  bind  him.  They  wanted  him  to  give  him 
self  to  them,  and  were  jealous  of  his  growing  beyond  them. 
They  were  very  proud  that  he  should  grow,  so  long  as  he 
grew  only  on  the  surface ;  and  they  listened  to  outsiders' 
praise  of  him  with  pleasure  that  reflected  on  themselves. 
But  once  let  him  advance  a  free  thought,  let  him  show 
them  that  they  might  be  wrong,  that  there  were  outside 
relations  to  be  considered,  things  they  had  never  heard, 
ah  1  then  how  their  looks  of  pain  stopped  him,  and  made 
him  feel  cruel  and  hard-hearted  to  wound  those  that  he 
always  best  loved  and  who  were  giving  their  loyal  lives 
for  him  1  Or  suppose  he  offered  a  confidence  within  their 
understanding  where  his  affections  were  concerned, —  sup 
pose  he  should  tell  them  of  a  love  that  he  bore  to  some 
teacher  or  comrade.  They  liked  it  chiefly  because  it 
showed  that  he  loved  them  more,  else  he  would  not  have 
given  them  confidence ;  for,  in  a  vague  way,  they  realised 
that  the  greatest  love  is  never  spoken  or  displayed  except 
to  the  beloved  who  receives  it.  And  then  they  talked  of 
his  confidence  with  one  another,  lightly  bandying  it  about, 
and  suddenly  throwing  it  up  to  him  when  his  heart's  nerves 


n6  Qjiicksand 

were  worn  thin  with  longing.  No,  he  could  not  speak 
to  them  of  love,  he  could  not  speak  to  them  of  growth. — 
least  of  all,  of  growth  in  religion  ;  for  here  he  was  hooped 
in  with  iron,  and  he  knew  they  would  break  their  hearts  if 
he  should  free  himself. 

Here  it  was  so  lamentably  come  to  pass, —  the  inevitable 
that  all  youth  must  encounter.  To  those  that  he  loved 
best  of  all  he  was  becoming  as  a  stranger  and  an  alien. 
He  was  growing  up  as  with  a  strange  language  in  which 
he  could  speak  only  of  the  needs  of  the  body  and  the 
trivial  gossip  of  the  day.  But  in  all  things  that  were 
reality  to  him,  he  was  deceiving  them  daily.  In  his  col 
lege  life  it  was  all  so  different.  He  could  walk  erect,  and 
speak  like  a  free  man. 

He  could  never  in  after  life  forget  one  warm  day  in 
October,  when  this  feeling  of  the  freedom  of  life  seemed 
quite  to  exalt  and  overpower  him.  He  had  taken  a  poem 
to  the  wood.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  he  was  alone. 
His  comrade  had  wandered  for  a  walk,  and  he  sat  high 
on  a  hill-top.  The  poem  was  Aurora  Leigh,  that  wonder 
ful  development  of  a  nature.  He  had  been  reading  at 
some  length  till  its  rhythm  was  throbbing  in  the  sunshine, 
and  the  fluttering,  sailing  leaves  marked  its  pauses.  At 
the  end  of  the  page  he  was  filled,  and  stopped  to  look  over 
the  fields  below  him,  the  creek  winding  woodsy,  smoke 
fragrant,  and  the  blue  sky  globing  in  the  earth. 

Nature,  the  mother-God,  was  speaking,  and  he  under 
standing  her  language.  Breathless  he  sat  during  the  mir 
acle,  and  his  soul  senses  drank  to  satiety.  Then  he 
turned  his  face  to  the  ground,  and  kissed  the  sweet  earth 
that  upheld  him.  He  stretched  out  his  happy  arms  as 
to  hug  the  whole  hill  to  his  breast.  It  was  his  earth,  and 
he  the  earth's  likewise.  The  union  made  him  weep  from 
pure  faintness,  so  happiness  is  overpowering. 


Qjiicksand  117 

It  may  not  have  been  a  coincidence  that  in  these  years 
the  boy  was  growing  beautiful.  Physically,  he  had  never 
been  strong,  being  undersized  and  delicate  always ;  but 
now,  though  not  yet  robust,  he  was  reaching  up  like  a 
young  sapling,  and  suppleness  was  straightening  his 
limbs  and  grace  was  flowing  in  his  motion.  His  head, 
too,  was  shaping  like  a  poet's,  a  heavy  brow  overshad 
owed  by  brown  curls  and  sensitiveness  and  beauty  in  his 
features.  There  was  one  fault,  but  age  might  overcome 
it:  his  chin,  though  modelled  with  affection,  was  small, 
and  timidly  receding. 

No  doubt  his  dress  did  something  to  make  this  change 
that  had  come  to  him ;  but,  then,  it  must  always  be  re 
membered  that  it  is  the  man  who  makes  the  change  of 
the  dress.  It  was  not  that  his  garments  were  more 
costly :  he  was  careful  in  spending  his  money.  No,  it 
was  because  the  garments  were  selected  with  a  taste,  a 
sense  of  fitness  growing  within  him.  Those  who  remem 
bered  him  in  those  days  thought  of  a  brown  jacket  coat 
fluttering  with  the  breeze  of  his  motion,  and  calling  out 
the  color  of  his  curls  and  hinting  at  the  laughter  in  his 
eyes.  He  wore  a  brown  cap  or  went  with  head  uncov 
ered.  It  was  like  him  to  wander  bareheaded.  Some  of 
them  called  him  "the  gypsy."  The  paper  collars,  too, 
were  a  thing  of  the  past.  Now  he  wore  a  shirt  of  soft 
white  flannel  always,  with  a  white  silk  tie  of  boyish,  flut 
tering  bows.  The  girls  all  wondered  how  he  ever  tied  it. 
His  grey  trousers  were  perfect  fitting.  His  shoes  were 
always  neat  and  serviceable.  Whence  came  this  transfor 
mation  of  two  years  ?  Whence  comes  the  dainty  rosebud 
from  the  winter  ? 

He  was  writing  now,  or  beginning  to  write,  and  with 
fervour, —  letters  to  his  absent  friends  at  first,  then  essays, 
and  poems  and  stories.  Of  course,  he  always  wrote  home 


us  Qjaicksand 

to  his  mother  and  sisters.  Never  a  week  went  by  with 
out  their  letter,  and  he  was  just  as  anxious  to  hear  from 
them.  They  sometimes  wrote  breezy,  bright  home  letters 
that  he  was  not  ashamed  to  read  to  his  chums.  Libbie 
was  the  gayest  and  most  satirical.  Her  lighter  vein  was 
sparkling  with  the  quaint  sides  of  the  gossip  of  the  neigh 
bours.  Much  of  it  was  suggested  by  the  magazine  they 
were  beginning  to  read, —  a  chatty,  bright  paper  for  young 
folk ;  for,  now  that  they  were  earning  their  own  money, 
bright  covers  were  attractive  about  the  house.  Their 
mother  was  a  little  jealous  of  this  reading.  She  feared 
it  took  them  from  more  spiritual  things. 

And  Hubert's  letters  were  gay  in  their  return,  giving 
long  descriptions  of  picnics  and  parties  or  of  debating 
contests  and  literary  doings  in  the  college, —  all  such  let 
ters  as  would  make  them  proud  of  their  boy  at  college, 
and  yet  with  never  a  real  flavour  that  was  in  him,  with 
the  longings  and  the  discoveries  of  his  youth  that  went 
to  his  student  comrades'  letters. 

He  knew  of  their  affairs  at  home.  Libbie  told  him  all 
about  Mary  and  Hiram,  and  Mary  in  turn  told  him  of 
Libbie.  He  was  much  concerned  over  the  trouble  about 
Hiram.  He  was  now  at  that  rebellious  age  that  he  did 
not  longer  feel  Hiram's  value  or  the  beauty  and  gentility 
of  such  a  character.  His  dreams  of  a  husband  for  Mary 
were  of  one  something  in  the  cut  of  a  college  professor. 
His  surroundings  counted  so  much  for  social  position  and 
standing,  and  that  standing  meant  polish  and  education. 
What  wonder  that  his  youth  was  affected,  and  that  his  old 
friend  became  commonplace  for  the  period?  He  wrote 
to  Libbie  at  great  length,  asking  her  not  to  show  the  let 
ter  to  Mary,  but  secretly  intending  she  should  do  so.  He 
wrote  to  Mary  as  well,  in  a  fashion  almost  patronising  in 
its  manliness ;  and  frequent  hints  followed  to  his  mother, 


Qjiicksand  119 

as  the  arguments  came  into  his  head.  Mary  should  have 
a  chance  in  life,  he  said.  She  should  get  to  some  larger 
town  than  Fort  Madison.  Perhaps  Burlington  would  be 
the  place  for  her ;  but  no,  that  would  not  do  for  a  girl 
alone.  She  must  wait,  perhaps,  till  he  had  finished  col 
lege.  Were  they  quite  sure  they  had  done  right  in  tak 
ing  her  away  from  Fort  Madison  ?  They  might  caution 
her  about  receiving  Hiram  there.  Of  course,  he  always 
added  that  Hiram  was  a  very  honest  and  fine  fellow ;  but 
the  hint  went  out  against  him  for  all  that. 

This  family  responsibility,  while  it  worried  him  a  great 
deal,  still  did  not  interrupt  the  even  flowing  of  his  college 
life,  nor  take  the  vital  grip  it  did  on  those  at  home,  who 
had  it  every  hour  before  them  in  the  animal  pleading  of 
Mary's  tearless  eyes. 

It  was  Hubert's  trouble  with  his  religion  that  gave  him 
greatest  discontent.  He  argued  himself  into  a  state  of 
helpless  stupidity  many  a  night,  only  to  begin  over  again 
the  next  morning.  In  the  beginning  it  was  easy  enough 
to  believe  for  the  first  six  months  after  the  revival.  He 
had  been  baptized  in  that  period,  and  accepted  into 
the  routine  of  the  church.  He  had  joined  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association,  and  been  an  active  member 
of  the  college  branch.  Then  his  faith  had  begun  to 
wane.  He  imagined  at  first  that  it  was  because  of  his  in 
terest  in  outside  reading ;  and  for  a  time  he  gave  that  up, 
and  confined  himself  to  the  Bible  or  strictly  religious 
literature.  He  redoubled  his  enthusiasm  in  church  work, 
and  tried  to  take  heart  from  other  members;  but  his 
mind  would  stray  to  thinking  again,  his  reasoning  would 
not  be  silent.  He  kept  up  his  work  in  the  church,  and 
that  made  him  feel  like  a  hypocrite.  One  day  he  went 
over  to  see  Tom  O'Malley ;  for  in  the  second  year  he  did 
not  room  with  Tom,  but  with  a  mate  chosen  more  to  his 
liking. 


120  Qjjicksand 

"  I  want  you  to  give  me  all  the  free-thought  literature 
you  have,  Tom.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  write  an 
oration  on  agnosticism,  and  need  to  know  something 
more  about  it,  as  I  can  see  nothing  now  to  disprove." 

Tom  brought  out  the  books  without  remark.  He 
was  a  very  canny  youth,  and  knew  when  to  keep  still. 

Hubert  took  them  to  his  room,  and  began  devouring 
their  argument.  Their  logic  burned  its  brands  into  his 
brain.  He  could  not  think  again  in  the  old  fashion. 
How  could  he  ever  have  been  so  narrow  as  to  believe  in 
the  plan  of  salvation  ?  It  was  not  the  teaching  of  Jesus, 
and  Jesus  himself  was  not  part  of  a  Godhead,  but  an 
ethical  reformer  preaching  against  old,  established  con 
ventions,  many  of  them  much  like  the  churches  of  to-day, 
so  far  as  Hubert  could  make  out.  This  was  torture  to 
him  while  it  endured.  In  the  end  he  suffered  only 
chagrin ;  for  how  could  he  face  the  people  he  respected, 
his  professors  and  the  members  of  the  church  ?  He  took 
the  books  back  to  Tom,  and  began  to  confess  freely  to 
him.  Then  Tom  told  him  of  a  secret  free-thought  soci 
ety  among  the  boys,  and  invited  him  to  join  it.  There 
was  relief  in  finding  the  best  brains  of  the  school  there  in 
that  little  organisation.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  know  com 
pany  in  misery ;  and  later,  as  he  grew  accustomed  to  the 
strangeness,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  find  company  in  freedom. 
The  world  opened  up  anew  before  him  once  he  could 
follow  his  reason  to  the  end.  The  society  members  had 
questioned  the  faculty,  and  knew  about  how  far  their  be 
lief  reached  on  test  points.  Sometimes  they  invited  in 
one  of  the  citizens  of  the  town  to  give  them  an  address  on 
free  thinking.  It  was  a  revelation  to  Hubert  to  find  that 
so  many  educated  men  were  opposed  to  orthodox  Christi 
anity.  In  time  he  came  to  feel  the  joy  of  freedom,  to 
revel  in  it,  and  sport  in  its  free  ether ;  but  then  he 


Qjuicksand  121 

thought  of  his  mother  at  home.     He  could  never  endure 
the  pain  of  telling  his  mother. 

So  it  came  that,  when  he  returned  for  his  second  year's 
vacation,  he  avoided  all  talks  about  religion.  His  mother 
could  see  that  he  was  troubled,  but  thought  it  only  some 
of  the  doctrines  of  the  church  that  were  worrying  him, 
and  held  no  concept  of  the  extent  of  the  chasm. 


XIX. 

THERE  was  a  little  magazine  published  by  the 
students  of  the  college,  and  from  time  to  time 
there  appeared  in  it  verses  and  stories  signed 
"  Hubert  Hinckley."  It  was  with  the  greatest  excitement 
that  Hubert  received  his  first  congratulations.  He  walked 
about  in  the  air  after  each  new  recognition  of  his  genius. 
One  morning  Professor  Saunders  stopped  him  on  the 
stairway. 

"  That  is  some  very  good  stuff  you  have  in  the  Review, 
Hinckley.  Too  good,  I  should  say,  for  a  college  paper. 
How  much  of  it  are  you  writing  ?  " 

Hubert  stammered  in  his  pleasure.  "  I  write  often, 
Professor  Saunders,  whenever  I  have  inspiration." 

"  You  may  as  well  be  getting  fifteen  dollars  a  page  for 
it  as  publishing  it  here  for  nothing.  And  your  poems, 
too,  ought  to  bring  you  money.  They  are  good  enough 
for  the  best  of  the  magazines." 

"  I  could  show  you  something  a  great  deal  better  than 
anything  I  have  in  the  Review,  if  you  think  it  would  have 
any  value,"  gasped  Hubert. 

"Why,  that  you  have  this  week  is  good  enough;  but 
by  all  means  bring  some  around.  Why  can't  you  come  to 
dinner  next  Sunday  ?  Come  right  with  us  from  church, 
and  you  can  read  something  after  dinner  to  me  and  my 
wife.  We  should  be  very  glad  to  have  you." 

Hubert  promised  that  he  would,  and  Professor  Saun 
ders  hurried  to  his  class-room.  The  boy  was  dizzy  with 
excitement.  He  went  into  the  composition-class,  but 
could  not  attend  to  the  recitations.  Then  he  heard  his 
own  name  spoken,  and  the  fussy  little  teacher  was  saying 
that  Mr.  Hinckley  had  all  the  versatility  to  make  a  suc 
cessful  literary  man.  His  class-mates  congratulated  him 


Qjuicksand  123 

again,  going  out.  They  were  good  fellows,  and  proud  of 
his  distinction.  All  that  day  was  a  dream.  He  could 
hardly  eat  any  dinner.  In  the  afternoon  he  was  quite 
unfit  for  study,  and  went  out  into  the  quiet  streets  off 
toward  a  country  lane. 

Professor  Saunders !  He  was  the  instructor  in  lan 
guages,  and  the  most  talented  man  of  their  faculty.  He 
came  from  an  Eastern  university,  had  only  been  there  a 
year,  and  would  remain  only  a  few  months  longer. 
"  He's  a  little  too  broad  for  this  college,"  was  the  criti 
cism  of  the  free-thought  society ;  and  very  probably  they 
were  right.  Professor  Saunders  was  literary  himself, 
his  sonnets  often  appearing  in  the  magazines ;  and  it  was 
whispered  he  was  writing  a  novel.  Mrs.  Saunders  was 
also  much  respected.  She  was  the  drawing-teacher  in 
the  college,  and  painted  in  oils  to  some  extent,  having 
spent  two  years  in  study  in  Paris.  The  very  name  of 
Paris  was  so  magical  and  authoritative  to  Hubert  that  he 
felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  on  hearing  it,  and  always  viewed 
Mrs.  Saunders  with  wonder.  Three  days  before  Sunday 
should  come  1  The  country  lane  gave  him  no  quiet. 

The  three  days  did  go  by,  however,  as  all  days  are 
bound  to  do ;  and  Hubert  was  sitting  in  the  pew,  with  his 
little  manuscript  book  in  his  pocket.  Would  Professor 
Saunders  forget  ?  and,  if  so,  should  he  dare  to  speak  to 
him  of  it  ?  Between  church  and  Sunday-school  he  was 
waiting,  almost  on  the  point  of  crying,  when  Mrs.  Saunders 
came  up.  She  was  a  pretty,  enthusiastic  woman,  with  a 
wealth  of  yellow  waving  hair,  which  she  did  up  loosely 
on  her  head  in  a  manner  that  was  very  becoming,  but 
quite  in  opposition  to  the  fashion. 

"  Mr.  Saunders  tells  me  you  are  coming  to  dine  to-day, 
and  afterwards  you  are  going  to  read  us  something,"  she 
said,  on  giving  him  her  hand. 


Q 


iicksand 


It  was  all  true,  then,  as  he  had  dreamed  it.  After  Sun 
day-school  he  was  walking  between  them,  the  precious 
book  still  in  his  pocket. 

Hubert  had  never  dined  with  the  Saunders  before.  It 
was  quite  a  new  experience  to  him.  A  few  times  he  had 
been  invited  out  to  Mt.  Pleasant  to  dine  at  the  rich 
people's  houses  —  some  members  of  the  church  who  were 
hospitable  —  or  with  the  president,  who  always  asked  the 
juniors,  or  with  an  older  professor  in  the  faculty.  He 
knew  what  formality  meant,  and  was  always  made  nervous 
by  it,  being  confused  by  the  number  of  courses  and  the 
selection  of  the  proper  utensils.  But  here  was  something 
entirely  different.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Saunders  kept  no  ser 
vant,  attending  to  the  cooking  themselves.  There  was  con 
stant  chatter  about  the  serving,  the  dinner  having  been 
cooking  while  they  were  at  church,  under  the  eye  of  a 
negro  girl  who  came  in  to  watch  it.  The  two  were  up 
and  down  from  the  table  in  the  beginning,  even  asking 
Hubert  to  help  them. 

He  had  never  seen  dainty  china  before,  or  such  deli 
cate  freshness  of  linen.  Flowers  were  on  the  table,  a 
little  bunch,  too,  at  each  plate.  The  vase  was  a  delicate 
goblet.  There  were  tinted  pale  patterns  on  the  dishes. 
Mrs.  Saunders  had  done  them  herself,  and  called  on  Hu 
bert  to  admire  them.  This  was  not  like  the  formal  heavi 
ness  of  his  other  dinners  of  occasion.  He  was  not  em 
barrassed  here.  The  afternoon  sun  shone  in  through  a 
purple  and  wine  coloured  window.  They  lingered  long 
over  the  dessert,  which  consisted  of  nuts  and  raisins. 
Then  coffee  was  served  at  the  end  in  tiny,  quaint  cups  of 
frail  china.  It  would  all  have  been  very  simple  to  those 
who  are  city-bred  or  those  who  have  seen  a  bit  of  the 
world  ;  but  to  Hubert,  from  his  home  at  the  farm,  this 
dinner  was  a  glimpse  into  paradise. 


Qjiicksand  125 

He  had  almost  forgotten  his  reading  when  they  spoke 
of  it  over  the  coffee.  Had  he  been  writing  long  ?  they 
asked,  with  other  polite  but  interested  questions. 

"  I  will  only  stop  to  put  the  dishes  in  the  kitchen,  and 
then  we  will  have  the  poems  at  once,"  said  Mrs.  Saunders. 

"  We  are  apt  to  have  callers  after  four,  and  we  must 
not  be  interrupted." 

Mr.  Saunders  helped  with  the  dishes ;  and  soon  they 
were  seated  in  the  dainty  little  parlour  that  gave  Hubert 
such  a  restful  satisfaction,  something  like  the  spirit  of  the 
woods.  Then  they  were  ready  to  listen,  and  tremblingly 
Hubert  began.  It  was  not  that  he  was  frightened,  exactly. 
His  hearers  were  too  kindly  for  that.  Besides,  he  was 
now  used  to  reading  before  crowds,  and  was  known 
all  over  the  college  as  a  clever  elocutionist  and  actor. 
But  this  occasion  seemed  to  him  momentous.  It  would, 
perhaps,  decide  all  of  his  future,  whether  he  would  be  a 
teacher  of  English  literature  or  a  great  and  known  Ameri 
can  writer.  He  was  glad  that  their  eyes  were  not  on  him. 
Mrs.  Saunders  had  a  bit  of  darning  in  her  hands,  and  her 
husband  was  looking  at  an  old  piece  of  Chinese  carving. 
Still,  it  was  hard  to  begin. 

He  had  chosen  his  most  childlike  things  for  them.  He 
felt  instinctively  they  would  like  them.  A  collection  of  tree 
stories  he  called  them, —  they  were  of  his  friends  in  the 
wood.  There  was  the  oak  first,  one  that  he  had  written 
three  years  ago,  one  day  when  he  was  thinking  of  Hiram. 
The  oak-tree  was  cheery  and  strong,  and  tender  with  the 
flowers  of  the  spring-time.  Then  a  sycamore  growing  by 
a  brook, —  a  sycamore  that  was  really  a  water-nymph,  and 
took  tree-form  only  when  men  came,  in  order  that  they 
might  not  enslave  her.  Then  one  day  a  man  came  and 
cut  the  sycamore  down;  and  the  nymph  shrivelled  and 
died  for  want  of  water  there  in  the  sight  of  the  brook, 


i26  Qjiicksand 

which  ever  since  has  known  only  sighing.  There  was  a 
willow-tree,  too,  done  in  verse,  the  simplest  form  of  the 
ballad,  the  natural  speaking  of  poetry.  Each  tale  seemed 
to  end  in  rich  sadness,  the  whispering  of  limitless  death. 
When  he  stopped  and  dared  to  look  up,  he  saw  that  Mrs. 
Saunders  was  sitting  quiet,  her  eyes,  with  a  far-away  look, 
just  moistened  with  exquisite  tears.  The  professor  arose 
with  a  sigh.  "  Who  are  you,  Hubert  Hinckley  ?  "  he  said 
solemnly ;  "  and  who  has  taught  you  to  write  things  like 
that  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  the  boy  had  felt  power,  real  power 
to  move  great  folk  to  weeping.  The  knowledge  almost 
brought  sobs  to  his  throat. 

"  I  am  only  a  boy  from  the  farm,"  he  said  softly ;  "  and 
no  one  has  ever  taught  me." 

Then  they  came  out  of  their  reverie,  and  began  ques 
tioning  eagerly.  What  have  you  done  ?  where  have  you 
been  ?  whom  have  you  known  ?  what  have  you  read  ? 
And  as  he  answered  them  each  time  with  "  nothing," 
they  sought  for  still  another  question  to  explain  this 
miracle  to  them. 

"It  is  imagination ! "  said  Mrs.  Saunders,  excitedly. 
"  Something  that  we  have  denied  the  existence  of 
throughout  this  whole  Western  country.  And  with  imagi 
nation  is  expression ;  but  I  insist  that  the  two  go  always 
together." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man  to  himself,  and  slowly,  as  if  pon 
dering  over  it.  "  The  most  remarkable,  the  most  wonder 
ful  thing  of  all  is,  Where  did  you  get  that  style  ?  Why,  it 
sounds,  it  sounds  " —  He  began  walking  back  and  forth 
there,  in  the  room.  "  And  it  is  beautiful  and  tender  and 
simple."  He  stopped  before  Hubert  here  solemnly. 
"  You  may  be  a  great  writer  some  day  if  you  keep  on. 
Have  you  shown  these  things  to  any  one  ?  " 


Qjiicksand  127 

Hubert  faltered  that  some  of  the  boys  had  seen  them. 

"  The  boys  !  "  said  Mr.  Saunders,  angrily.  "'These  are 
not  things  to  show  boys.  Of  course,  they  do  very  well 
sometimes ;  but  I  mean  any  one  who  knows." 

Hubert  thought  of  the  instructor  in  composition. 

"  Oh,  she  means  well,  of  course,"  said  the  questioner ; 
"  but  I  refer  to  some  one  outside.  Have  you  ever  tried 
publishing  anything  ?  " 

No,  the  young  genius  had  not :  he  did  not  know  how, 
exactly. 

"  Then  you  must  begin  at  once.  You  must  get  some 
opinion  on  this  matter.  I  will  show  you  how  I  send  to 
the  magazines,  give  you  methods  of  writing  and  keeping 
a  record.  You  must  put  things  through  a  regular  ma 
chine.  Send  methodically  to  each  periodical,  and  not  be 
discouraged  when  they  come  back,  but  send  them  to  an 
other  at  once." 

Hubert  suggested  that  he  had  other  material  lighter 
and  more  practical,  even  humorous. 

Mr.  Saunders  glanced  hastily  through  it.  "  Some  day 
you  shall  show  us  more,  but  now  we  have  seen  enough  to 
know.  Come,  while  I  show  you  about  sending  to  the 
magazines.  We  may  be  interrupted  at  any  time." 

The  callers  began  to  arrive  soon.  It  seemed  their 
friends  came  in  Sunday,  though  this  was  hardly  a  custom 
with  the  professors  in  that  straight-laced  Methodist  town. 
Hubert  was  too  much  excited  to  stay  long.  He  took 
leave,  and  got  out  into  the  air.  Only  he  did  not  go  to 
his  boarding-house,  but  made  straight  out  alone  for  the 
wood. 

He  had  felt  his  first  sense  of  power,  and  the  sweetness 
was  near  overmastering. 


XX. 

HIRAM  had  begun  work  on  his  new  house  in  spite 
of  the  discouraged  objections  from  Mary.  "  At 
any  rate,  I  may  as  well  haul  the  lumber,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  stone  for  walling  the  cellar."  He  did  not  see 
Mary  often  alone.  Libbie  found  excuse  to  keep  with  her. 
Mary  said  she  was  busy,  as  well.  She  seemed  to  want  to 
excuse  her  mother's  action,  and  protect  her  from  any  harsli 
criticism.  Libbie,  on  the  other  hand,  could  be  seen 
almost  any  day.  She  seemed  very  favourable  to  Hiram. 
He  began  to  think  her  his  friend,  and  whistled  while  pil 
ing  his  lumber.  It  will  all  come  out  right  yet,  he  thought. 
Meanwhile  he  would  only  delay  matters  by  crowding. 
Winter  came  on,  and  Christmas.  They  began  to  look 
toward  the  spring.  "  In  the  summer  I  can  begin  build 
ing,"  said  Hiram.  "And  in  the  autumn, —  but  we  have 
wasted  a  year  1  How  foolish  at  my  time  of  life !  and  Mary 
is  growing  careworn  and  listless." 

Once  he  thought  of  speaking  to  Libbie.  She  came  over 
regularly  with  the  bread,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  linger 
ing  if  she  found  him  outside.  He  never  invited  her  into 
the  cabin. 

"When  is  your  mother  going  to  give  me  another  chance 
about  Mary  ?  "  he  asked.  "It  is  more  than  six  months 
now  we've  waited." 

Libbie  looked  embarrassed,  and  hesitated.  "  Why  do 
you  want  to  marry  ?  "  she  said.  "  Why  not  stay  like 
brother  and  sister?  I  have  always  considered  you  as 
a  brother." 

"  I  shall  be  the  more  your  brother  when  your  sister  has 
become  my  wife."  He  was  always  ready  with  an  an 
swer. 

Libbie  was  more  earnest  now.     "  Marriages  are  so  ter- 


Quicksand  129 

rible  in  a  family  1  You  live  alone,  and  can't  understand 
how  it  is.  We  should  be  all  broken  up  without  Mary." 

"  Families  are  soon  broken  up  if  there  are  no  marriages," 
replied  Hiram,  laconically. 

Libbie  threw  her  hand  out  impatiently.  In  falling,  it 
alighted  on  his  hand,  which  was  resting  on  the  new  pile 
of  lumber. 

He  did  not  move  his  hand  at  the  instant,  thinking  it 
was  her  place  to  take  the  initiative.  Perhaps  she  would 
say  she  was  his  friend. 

Libbie  moved  her  fingers,  but  not  her  hand.  The 
fingers  seemed  grasping  for  something.  She  was  prob 
ably  lonely  and  careless,  thinking  of  Oliver,  no  doubt. 

She  lingered  for  some  time  that  day,  chatting  of  various 
things.  When  she  went  home,  it  was  with  evident  reluc 
tance  ;  and  all  that  day  she  was  thinking. 

That  night  she  turned  toward  Mary  in  bed.  They 
always  slept  together,  as  when  children.  Mary  would 
prefer  to  sleep  alone ;  but  Libbie  always  said  Mary 
was  nervous,  and  needed  some  one  to  look  after  her. 
During  the  last  year  Mary  had  grown  averse  to  any  dis 
play  of  affection,  yet  Libbie  was  always  hugging  and  kiss 
ing.  To-night  there  were  quavers  in  her  voice,  and  Mary 
resolved  to  put  up  with  the  embraces.  Libbie  was  not 
well,  perhaps.  At  all  events,  she  seemed  very  lonesome. 

"  I  was  talking  with  Hiram  to-day,"  began  Libbie,  in 
her  affectionate  voice,  the  voice  used  when  she  was  feeling 
confidential.  "  I  was  telling  him  how  it  would  break  up 
our  happiness  if  you  should  be  taken  away  from  us.  He 
seemed  quite  touched  when  I  spoke  of  it.  We  all  of  us 
love  you  so  dearly."  She  gave  her  sister  a  long,  passion 
ate  squeeze.  "  Then  I  said  how  nice  if  we  could  go  on  as 
before,  loving  like  brother  and  sisters.  Really,  I  am  very 
fond  of  Hiram.  He  seems  a  real  brother  to  me.  We 


1 30  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

knew  him,  you  know,  when  we  were  little  girls.  That  was 
before  Adelaide  died." 

Mary  made  no  remark. 

"  Yes,  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  many  times  how  much 
I  think  of  Hiram.  To-day  my  hand  rested  against  his. 
Do  you  know,  I  almost  loved  him  ?  " 

"  Don't,  Libbie !  You  hurt  me,"  was  all  that  Mary 
made  answer. 

"  I  thought  then  from  the  way  he  acted  that  in  time  he 
might  come  to  think  of  me  just  in  the  way  he  does  of  you ; 
and  then,  perhaps,  we  could  persuade  mother  to  let  Hiram 
come  and  live  with  us,  and  we'd  have  two  brothers  instead 
of  one." 

"  He's  not  like  a  brother  to  me,"  protested  Mary. 

"  Well,  I  feel  different  toward  him,  too,  than  what  I  do 
to  Sam.  Say,  Mary,  do  you  love  him  very  much  ?  " 

"  I've  told  you  before,  Libbie." 

"  But  you  love  your  dear  Libbie  most,  your  own  and 
everlasting  sister  ? " 

"  That's  a  different  kind  of  love,"  said  patient  Mary. 

"  But,  if  Hiram  cared  for  me  just  the  same  as  he  does 
for  you  ?  "  faltered  Libbie,  breathlessly. 

"  He  did  not  tell  you  that,"  said  Mary,  stanchly. 

"  No ;  but  I  gathered  that  he  might.  He  has  always 
thought  a  great  deal  of  us  all,"  answered  Libbie. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Let  us  go  to  sleep,"  said  Mary,  turning  over.  "  Take 
away  your  arms.  I  am  so  hot." 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  know  very  little  of 
Hiram's  past  life  ?  "  said  Libbie,  eagerly.  "  You  know  he 
was  away  for  ten  years." 

"  He  was  at  sea,  I  suppose,  all  that  time." 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  but  sailors,  you  know,  come  ashore. 
And  sailors  lead  a  wicked  life,  mother  says." 


Qjiicksand  131 

"  Hiram  was  never  wicked." 

"  But,  sister,  you  believe  a  man  should  live  as  pure  a 
life  as  a  woman,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  think  you  should  know  about 
Hiram's  past  before  you  could  think  of  ever  marrying 
him  ? " 

"  I  am  willing  to  trust  him  as  he  is." 

"Oh,  but  you  do  not  know  about  these  things.  I 
declare,  you  need  some  one  to  watch  over  you  every 
minute.  I  have  read  and  thought  things  out.  You  know 
how  I  sent  Oliver  walking.  Well,  I  had  my  reasons  for 
that." 

"  I  should  never  dream  of  questioning  Hiram,"  said 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  but  it's  your  duty, —  a  duty  you  owe  to  your  sex. 
If  you  didn't  think  of  speaking  to  him,  it  would  be  my 
duty  to  speak  for  you." 

"  Libbie,  you  could  never  dream  of  such  a  thing  I  " 

"  I  am  very  brave,"  replied  Libbie,  "  where  my  duty 
and  my  loyalty  are  prompting  me." 

The  conversation  went  no  farther  that  night,  but  she 
proved  to  be  as  good  as  her  word ;  for  there  began  a  cat 
echism  of  Hiram  as  persistent  as  it  seemed  to  be  hidden, 
and  certainly,  as  it  proved  to  be,  futile.  Hiram  would 
only  laugh  at  her  inquiries,  and  pretend  not  to  understand 
them.  If  he  was  forced  into  speaking  plainly,  he  would 
only  put  her  off  with  a  laugh,  and  "  What  can  a  girl  like 
you  know  of  such  things  ?  "  Once  he  whispered  to  Mary, 
"  Anything  that  you  ask  I'll  answer  differently."  But 
Libbie  never  knew  of  that  aside.  Hiram  was  too  kind  to 
tell  her  in  his  straightforward  English  that  he  would  use 
in  speaking  to  a  man,  "  You  had  better  mind  your  own 
business." 


1 32  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

Libbie  at  that  time  took  it  upon  herself  to  make  him 
stop  smoking,  and  she  also  undertook  to  convert  him. 
Hiram  remained  immovable  as  a  tree,  joking  and  laughing 
about  it.  Sometimes  these  conversations  took  place  in 
the  evening  when  he  came  to  the  house.  For  he  came 
perseveringly  to  see  Mary.  If  they  would  not  let  him  see 
her  alone,  they  would  have  to  put  up  with  his  company ; 
and,  much  as  Mrs.  Hinckley  might  show  her  disfavour,  she 
still  liked  to  have  him  in  to  entertain  her.  The  place  was 
not  so  gloomy  with  him  there.  Her  husband  was  much 
given  to  reading,  and  Sam  was  never  talkative  with  the 
family.  Mr.  Hinckley,  too,  had  something  to  say  about 
Hiram's  coming,  and  would  not  have  him  forbidden  the 
house. 

It  was  during  these  evening  visits,  or  when  Libbie  went 
over  with  the  baking,  that  she  pushed  forward  her  virt 
uous  crusade.  It  was  given,  as  it  was  taken,  in  good 
humour.  No  one  could  be  long  cross  with  Hiram.  Some 
times  on  his  coming  near  she  would  call  Mary  to  come 
and  make  a  search  of  his  pockets  for  the  much-hated 
pipe.  Then  she  would  smell  of  his  coat,  to  see  if  he  had 
recently  been  smoking.  Once  he  blew  some  smoke  into 
her  face,  and  she  would  not  speak  to  him  for  days ;  but, 
finding  that  he  was  profiting  by  her  sulking  to  have  a 
quiet  talk  with  Mary,  she  soon  employed  other  tactics. 
Their  discussions  over  religion  would  have  been  a  cause 
of  open  rupture,  except  that  Hiram  would  refuse  to  dis 
cuss  it.  "I  suppose  I  am  a  pagan,"  he  would  laugh, 
"  but  just  now  I  am  interested  in  something  else."  And  he 
would  turn  the  talk  to  politics  or  some  question  of  the 
day  until  even  Sam  was  enlivened.  As  for  Mary,  she 
used  to  join  in  the  frolics,  but  always  with  sadness  in  her 
heart.  What  did  Libbie  mean  by  it  all  ?  she  kept  asking ; 
and  what  did  Hiram  think  of  it  ? 


Qjuicksand  133 

Libbie  herself  did  not  know  what  she  meant.  She  did 
not  mean  to  be  selfish  or  wicked.  Indeed,  she  was 
honest  in  her  conviction  that  she  was  generously  help 
ing  her  sister.  As  she  came  to  grow  into  the  knowl 
edge  that  she,  too,  was  loving  Hiram, —  loving  him  with  a 
passion  so  intense  that  it  racked  her  constitution  into 
debility, —  she  prided  herself  that  she  was  offering  this 
assistance  to  Mary  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  her  most  sacred 
feelings.  She  would  die,  she  said,  for  her  dear  sister. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  the  case  with  the  average 
woman  that,  having  been  prevented  from  marrying  the 
man  of  her  choice,  and  having  arrived  at  an  age  when  the 
demands  of  a  blighted  motherhood  are  clamorous,  there 
can  be  very  little  that  is  rational  about  much  of  her  \ 
actions,  very  little  that  is  reliable  in  questions  of  sex,  and 
little  that  is  blameworthy,  either. 


XXI. 

IT  was  during  Hubert's  third  year  in  college  tl 
Hinckley  was  taken  ill,  and  there  was  anxiety] 
recovery.  He  had  been  working  over-much 
autumn,  and  had  been  careless  about  avoiding  e: 
The  work,  too,  was  very  severe  and  disagreeable, —  a  long 
job  of  repairs  on  the  railroad  shops  in  Burlington,  tearing 
off  old  shingles  and  putting  on  new,  working  in  coal-dust 
and  filth  that  had  accumulated  around  the  places  for 
years.  There  had  been  heavy  storms  of  rain  and  sleet 
that  fall,  as  well ;  and  the  winter  set  in  early.  "  Throw  the 
job  up.  It  isn't  worth  the  money,"  said  Hiram  one  day 
in  visiting  him.  But  Mr.  Hinckley  shook  his  head,  and 
kept  on.  He  was  thinking  of  the  extra  expense  of 
Hubert, —  his  board,  his  tuition,  his  clothes,  and  his  books. 
Times  were  hard  on  the  farm  just  now,  and  a  little  money 
invested  in  mortgages  was  not  paying.  No,  he  would 
keep  on  till  the  end  in  spite  of  a  severe  cold  contracted 
and  the  weariness  of  age  creeping  on  him.  It  was  not 
until  the  middle  of  December  that  he  came  home  to  stay  for 
the  winter ;  and  the  cough  had  fixed  itself  on  him,  and  the 
family  had  fears  of  consumption.  During  the  holidays, 
when  Hubert  was  home  and  all  were  trying  to  make 
merry,  very  little  was  thought  of  the  cough.  He  would 
wear  it  away  soon,  he  said  ;  but,  as  the  winter  deepened 
and  the  hacking  spasms  still  continued,  Mrs.  Hinckley 
insisted  on  calling  a  physician,  who  gave  no  encouraging 
report.  "  It  looks  like  consumption,"  he  said.  "  I 
should  advise  a  change  of  air.  A  trip  to  the  mountains 
would  be  best." 

Here  Hiram,  who  was  heartsick  with  long  waiting, 
came  in,  and  proposed  a  trip  to  Arizona  or  anywhere  in 
the  Rockies  of  the  South,  wherever  the  physicians  should 


Qjiicksand  135 

advise.  They  could  get  work  in  some  of  the  mining 
camps,  he  argued,  and  easily  pay  expenses  for  the  winter. 
He  could  rent  his  farm  for  a  year.  One  of  the  neighbours 
could  take  it  on  shares. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  with  Sam  and  her  daughters  held  a  long, 
serious  conference  about  it.  Could  they  have  their 
father  and  husband  taken  from  them  by  one  who  was  not 
of  their  kin  ?  Who  could  tell  what  would  happen  to  him 
out  in  the  wilderness  ?  Who  would  there  be  to  care  for 
him  like  those  who  loved  him  ?  Hiram  would  do  his  best, 
of  course ;  but  a  man  needs  the  care  of  a  woman,  especially 
when  he  has  daughters  and  a  wife.  Hiram  had  put  in  an 
argument  that  Mary  go,  too,  as  his  wife ;  and  this  was 
what  Mary  much  wished,  though  her  voice  was  nothing 
against  Libbie's.  What !  desert  her  mother  and  the 
family  after  all  they  had  done  for  her  ?  And  with  Hubert, 
too,  away  in  college,  costing  them  more  every  month  ? 
She  used  to  want  to  sew  and  do  what  she  could  for  her 
brother ;  but  now  she  would  go  deserting  to  the  mountains, 
and  perhaps  they  would  all  three  die  out  there  together. 
Libbie  was  going  into  hysterics,  and  the  mother  was 
trembling  with  an  oncoming  fit  of  crying.  Mary  saw 
that  it  could  not  be  done.  At  least,  she  did  not  have  the 
courage  to  do  it ;  and  that  part  of  the  matter  was  dropped. 
Should  their  father  go  alone  with  Hiram  ?  That  was  the 
question  to  decide.  Sam  broke  out  here,  and  said  he 
didn't  see  why  Hiram  should  have  all  the  advantage, 
while  he,  the  real  son,  should  stay  home  and  do  all  the 
work.  He  had  never  been  anywhere  nor  seen  anything. 
Just  stayed  on  that  soggy  square  of  land,  and  drudged, 
drudged,  drudged.  Why  couldn't  Hiram  take  his  place 
for  a  year,  and  marry  Mary  and  Libbie  both,  if  he  wanted 
to,  but  give  him  one  year  of  freedom  and  a  chance  to  see 
the  world  for  himself  ?  Hiram  had  been  at  sea  for  ten 


136  Quicksand 

years,  and  now  they  were  working  their  fingers  to  the 
bone  to  give  Hubert  a  life  of  laziness  and  pleasure. 

This  outbreak  caused  another  feminine  panic.  Sam 
had  never  spoken  like  this  to  any  one.  It  took  the 
breath  quite  out  of  their  bodies. 

"  What,"  they  gasped,  "  leave  us  ?  Do  you  want  to 
leave  your  mother  and  your  sisters?  Who  would  take 
care  of  you  out  there  ?  How  can  you  speak  so,  Sam  ? 
You  know  you  want  to  see  Hubert  improve  as  much  as 
we  do.  You  would  mortgage  the  farm  to  keep  him  in 
college."  Mary  began  to  cry  here,  whether  because  she 
was  sorry  for  Sam  or  whether  for  herself  or  her  father 
she  could  not  exactly  make  out  afterward,  as  she  was 
thinking  it  over.  Everything  was  in  a  hopeless  tangle. 
It  seemed  sometimes  as  if  each  one  was  thinking  of  her 
self,  and  their  father  was  left  out  altogether. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  ignored  Sam's  outburst  after  a  brief  fit 
of  crying.  She  could  not  part  with  her  eldest  born,  the 
one  who  had  been  her  mainstay  in  all  affliction.  Sam's 
eyes  were  wet,  too,  by  this  time.  He  was  very  miserable 
that  he  had  spoken  at  all,  and  again  they  began  consider 
ing  the  trip  with  Hiram. 

Libbie  was  flatly  against  this.  In  secret  she  did  not 
want  to  see  Hiram  go  away.  The  world  would  be  dark 
ness  for  her  then,  for  he  had  become  to  her  like  the  sun ; 
but  she  threw  the  chief  part  of  the  argument  on  Mary, 
who  could  see  him  going  away  from  her  like  this,  leaving 
her  to  die  an  old  maid  after  keeping  all  other  suitors  from 
her.  Mary  kept  quiet,  too.  It  would  be  very  hard  to 
lose  Hiram,  and  perhaps  would  not  help  father,  either. 
Then  if  father  should  die  out  there,  away  from  them. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  voiced  the  wishes  of  all,  and  conse 
quently  held  the  decision.  No,  it  plainly  would  not  do. 
Their  father  was  getting  old,  and  they  could  not  let  him 


Qji  icksand  137 

go  from  their  watchful  protection.  As  they  said,  who 
could  tell  what  might  happen  out  there?  And,  then, 
worse  things  might  happen  than  death.  Their  father  was 
weakening  in  his  mind :  she  could  see  that,  she  had  been 
watching  him  often.  Suppose  that  Hiram  should  turn 
him  to  atheism  ?  She  had  read  of  similar  cases  with  old 
men.  Mr.  Hinckley  was  very  fond  of  Hiram ;  and,  then, 
he  had  never  been  truly  converted.  No,  they  must  keep 
him  here  with  their  care ;  and  they  must  watch  over  him 
and  pray  for  him,  and  pray  every  night  that  he  be  con 
verted  and  receive  the  baptism  that  was  commanded. 
There  was  a  great  revival  coming,  a  famous  boy  preacher 
would  hold  a  series  of  meetings  at  the  school-house ;  and 
they  must  get  their  father  to  go  and  listen  to  the  truth 
before  it  was  too  late.  It  was  a  dreadful  shadow  now 
overhanging  them, —  the  eternal  danger  of  their  father  ; 
and  they  would  have  to  answer  for  his  soul  when  they 
stood  before  the  judgment-seat  of  God. 

So  the  conference  came  to  an  end ;  but  it  left  much  of 
grief  and  hard  feeling,  each  seeing  selfishness  in  the 
position  of  the  others,  each  thinking  of  the  horrors  of 
ingratitude  when  shown  against  one's  own  blood.  There 
was  matter  for  brooding  there,  surely ;  and  the  seed  of 
internal  discontent  had  fallen  on  fertile  soil,  ground  that 
had  been  enriched  for  years  with  the  leaves  of  self-sacri 
fice  and  satisfaction. 

"No,  I  can't  get  away,"  Mr.  Hinckley  was  saying 
afterward  to  Hiram.  "You  see,  mother  and  the  girls 
are  so  tied  to  me  from  habit  that  they  couldn't  get  along 
without  their  father.  At  my  very  mention  of  going, 
Libbie  and  Mary  begin  to  cry ;  and  mother  is  always  look 
ing  nervous.  When  you  have  a  family  of  your  own, 
Hiram,  you'll  come  to  see  how  it  is.  You  are  bound  to 
stay  with  them  and  care  for  them.  You  can't  go  away 


138  Qjiicksand 

and  desert ;  and  then,  if  I  should  die  out  there,  they  would 
break  their  hearts  grieving  for  me,  Hiram.  Elizabeth 
would  never  be  comforted.  And  we  don't  know  that  the 
air  in  the  mountains  would  do  me  any  good,  either,  in  the 
end.  I  guess  I'll  get  well  as  it  is.  This  cough  will  let 
up  in  the  spring." 

There  was  brightness  and  cheer  in  the  family  still  on 
the  surface,  in  spite  of  the  underlying  gloom.  They 
laughed  and  chatted  in  the  evening,  and  Hiram  came  in 
as  of  old.  Then  the  protracted  meetings  began,  and 
these  always  furnished  interest  in  the  winter.  Mary 
went  steadily  this  winter :  there  were  no  evenings  alone 
with  Hiram.  Libbie  sometimes  stayed  at  home  alone, 
and  she  asked  Hiram  to  come  up  and  keep  her  com 
pany  ;  but  in  some  way  Hiram  was  afraid  of  her  com 
pany.  His  breathlessness  was  evident  when  he  en 
countered  her  alone ;  and  at  these  times  he  was  always 
in  a  great  hurry,  only  stopping  for  his  kindest  explana 
tions.  Libbie  was  cut  to  the  heart  by  these  actions,  and 
then  her  imagination  sought  out  new  and  dear  explana 
tions.  Could  it  be, —  came  the  fluttering  question, —  could 
it  be  that  Hiram  loved  her,  but  kept  back  from  loyalty  to 
Mary  ?  Libbie  felt  very  sorry  for  Mary  at  this  time,  and 
sent  her  off  to  meeting  out  of  kindness,  in  order  that  she 
might  not  feel  Hiram's  coldness.  Then,  when  Hiram  had 
left  her  alone,  she  used  to  kneel  down  in  the  kitchen  and 
pray  for  his  soul,  that  it  be  converted.  She  prayed  for 
her  father's  soul,  too,  and  pleaded  that  he  might  see  the 
light  before  it  should  be  too  late. 

There  was  a  great  effort  being  made  for  Mr.  Hinckley 
at  the  meetings  that  season  on  all  sides.  Mrs.  Hinckley 
had  whispered  to  the  members,  and  the  neighbours  all 
knew  of  his  bodily  condition.  Now  they  must  work  for 
the  never-dying  soul,  and  the  prayers  that  went  up  were 


Qji  icksand  139 

unceasing.  The  boy  preacher  was  very  eloquent  and 
convincing ;  and  he  gave  up  one  sermon  entirely  to  the 
father  who  had  not  yet  openly  given  his  heart  to  the 
Lord,  and  was  now  nearing  the  darkness  of  death,  leaving 
his  sainted  wife  and  children  weeping  in  despair  for  his 
soul.  The  sermon  perhaps  was  not  directly  intended  for 
Mr.  Hinckley,  though  the  occasion  of  it  was  carefully 
arranged.  It  left  a  deep  impression  on  the  culprit.  After 
all,  what  could  be  the  harm  in  being  on  the  safe  side? 
Everybody  believed  in  conversion  and  baptism.  Why 
should  he  hold  out  in  stubbornness,  when  he  stood  with  one 
foot  in  the  grave,  and  his  dear  wife  was  weeping  and 
praying  ?  In  the  end  the  sick  man  gave  up.  He  did 
experience  afterward  a  sense  of  peace  and  pleasure, 
partly  from  heaven,  it  may  be,  but  much  of  it  from  within 
his  own  home. 

In  the  spring,  as  soon  as  the  creek  was  thawed  out, 
there  was  to  be  a  great  baptising ;  for  many  souls  had 
been  garnered  in.  Mr.  Hinckley  looked  forward  to  it 
tranquilly.  He  was  confident  that  he  should  live  till  then. 

A  letter  of  joy  was  written  to  the  absent  Hubert,  and 
word  that  he  must  come  down  to  see  the  baptism, —  his 
father  and  all  of  them  wished  it.  There  was  a  secret  fear 
in  the  mother's  heart  that  Hubert  was  straying  from  be 
lief.  Still,  she  argued,  it  could  not  be  possible  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  Methodist  denomination.  But  it  would 
be  a  great  example  for  him,  and  something  he  could  often 
speak  of  as  a  preacher,  when  he  saw  his  father's  grey 
hairs  descend  beneath  the  water,  and  felt  the  blessedness 
in  his  soul. 


XXII. 

IT  was  a  disagreeable  interruption  to  Hubert, —  this 
call  to  his  father's  baptism.  He  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  brilliancy  of  the  little  free-thought  society,  and 
growing  in  his  literary  fame.  He  was  now  elected  an 
editor  on  the  staff  of  the  Review,  and  was  considered  the 
leading  star  among  the  college  orators.  He  was  enjoying 
regular  visits  to  the  home  of  Professor  Saunders,  and  was 
becoming  acquainted  in  two  or  three  other  houses,  with 
something  of  the  same  delicate  understanding  of  living, 
these  visits  coming  about  most  naturally  from  friends  that 
were  met  at  the  Saunders's.  He  was  already  learning 
what  artistic  people  mean  by  colour,  and  what  beautiful 
china  and  old  ware  is  ;  and  he  was  reading  of  sculpture 
and  painting.  Before  this  time,  poetry  was  the  only  man- 
created  beauty  he  had  known  ;  but  now  other  visions  were 
given  him. 

He  could  not  refuse  the  invitation,  however.  When  he 
thought  of  his  mother,  he  could  not.  They  had  sent  him 
the  sum  of  money  for  fare.  There  was  no  way  of  plead 
ing  poverty.  Moreover,  he  had  been  thinking  of  his 
father's  illness  a  great  deal  of  late ;  and  his  heart  was  un 
usually  tender.  It  would  be  difficult,  perhaps,  for  him  to 
avoid  talking  of  religion,  though  experience  had  taught 
him,  if  he  would  only  keep  still,  those  who  loved  him 
would  keep  up  the  deception,  deceiving  themselves  even 
more  deeply,  thinking :  "  Hubert  holds  these  things  so 
sacredly  that  he  cannot  speak  to  us  of  them.  But  how 
the  words  will  flow  out  when  he  is  called  forth  in  rever 
ence  to  preach  1  "  Yes,  he  must  go.  It  did  not  entail 
missing  lessons.  He  could  go  on  Saturday  noon,  and 
only  stay  over  Sunday. 

Sam  and  Mary  came  to  meet  him  at  the  station. 


Quicksand  141 

"  How  is  father  ?  "  he  asked  them. 

"  He  is  well,  but  he  does  not  get  strong.  It's  curious 
how  weak  he  is,"  said  Sam. 

"  And  the  weather  is  so  backward  for  May,"  added 
Mary.  "  I'm  afraid  the  cold  water  will  chill  him.  And 
if  he  should  get  one  of  his  spells  of  coughing  1  " 

"  They  all  say  that  the  water  of  baptism  never  does 
any  harm,"  said  Sam,  seriously.  "  No  one  ever  catches 
cold.  I  myself  have  seen  them  cut  a  hole  in  the  ice  and 
dip  people  in ;  and  afterward  they  stood  around  in  their 
wet  clothes  till  the  cloth  stiffened  with  freezing.  Still, 
they  said  nobody  was  sick  after  it." 

Hubert  almost  began  disputing  this  statement,  but 
settled  back,  silent  and  thoughtful.  "  How  can  I  ever 
tell  them  ?  "  he  kept  thinking. 

His  mother  and  Libbie  came  to  meet  him  at  the  gate. 
His  mother  was  crying  softly  for  joy.  "  Oh,  the  blessed 
ness  of  this  occasion  !  "  she  whispered.  And  Libbie  was 
hugging  him  close.  She  could  never  realise  he  had 
grown  to  be  a  man.  His  mother  had  much  more  under 
standing.  He  found  his  father  in  the  kitchen,  coughing 
and  sitting  by  the  stove.  He  had  not  been  prepared  for 
such  a  change.  He  had  never  thought  of  his  father  as 
an  old  man,  but  now  he  was  so  feeble  and  thin.  They 
went  into  the  little  parlour  at  once,  where  Libbie  had 
lighted  a  fire;  and  immediately  his  father  began  telling 
him  the  story  of  his  "experience,"  as  he  called  it, —  tell 
ing  him  how  he  had  been  sinning  and  rebellious,  then 
he  came  into  a  state  of  doubt,  then  received  salvation  for 
his  soul.  He  was  telling  this  to  him,  Hubert,  his  son, 
and  telling  it  in  such  a  personal  way,  with  the  mother 
listening  in  front  of  them.  It  seemed  so  bold  and  harsh 
to  Hubert  then.  He  was  at  the  age  when  shame  for  one's 
parents  come  easily,  and  now  he  could  not  understand 


142  Qjiicksand 

the  simple  beauty  of  this  confession.  He  did  not  love 
his  Wordsworth  enough  for  that. 

An  interruption  came  in  the  call  for  supper,  but  after 
ward  the  talk  was  resumed  again.  This  did  not  seem 
like  his  father,  and  Hubert  nervously  kept  longing  for 
Hiram ;  but  his  cheerful  face  did  not  'appear,  and  they 
sat  in  a  circle  till  bed-time,  religiously  listening  to  the 
feeble  sick  man.  At  nine  o'clock  Sam  got  the  Bible  and 
read  a  chapter  aloud.  Then  they  all  knelt  down,  as  was 
their  custom,  and  waited  the  beginning  of  the  prayer. 

"  Will  you  pray,  Hubert  ?  "  said  the  father,  softly. 

The  boy  could  answer  honestly  in  this,  "Not  while 
you  are  here,  father :  it  would  seem  like  taking  your 
place." 

Then  the  old  man  began  feebly,  praying  much  as  he 
had  spoken.  He  became  more  fervent  and  eloquent  as 
he  went  on,  speaking  rapidly  in  loud,  strained  tones.  At 
the  end  he  broke  into  a  spasm  of  coughing,  and  they  rose 
without  the  Amen.  Hubert  was  relieved  to  get  to  bed ; 
but  as  he  lay  by  Sam,  thinking  as  of  old,  there  were 
rational  troubles  haunting  him  now,  and  it  was  midnight 
before  he  could  sleep. 

In  the  morning  they  were  busy  with  the  work,  and 
there  was  little  chance  for  conversation.  They  were 
making  ready  for  Sunday-school  and  church,  and  there 
were  special  and  extra  preparations.  Hubert  stood  about 
awkwardly,  not  being  able  to  help  Sam  for  the  danger  of 
soiling  his  clothes,  and  feeling  always  an  alien  among 
them  as  they  hurried  about  the  house.  Hubert  almost 
hoped  that  Hiram  would  put  in  an  appearance,  though  he 
was  hardly  in  a  mood  for  Hiram.  He  was  glad  when 
they  were  all  in  the  spring  wagon  and  pulling  along 
through  the  mud. 

Sunday-school  and  church, —  how  long  they  were  to-day  I 


Qjiicksand  143 

In  the  town  he  always  amused  himself  by  mentally  argu 
ing  with  the  minister ;  but  in  this  cruder  form  of  school- 
house  service  there  was  little  argument  to  combat, —  just 
an  explaining  of  the  text,  a  harping  on  the  old,  old 
sentences.  He  could  amuse  himself  now  by  looking  at 
his  old  friends  and  neighbours.  They  came  up  and  spoke 
to  him  after  church,  and  congratulated  him  on  the  happy 
occasion.  But  to-day  he  did  not  want  to  see  old  neigh 
bours  :  they  seemed  only  coarse  to  him  now, —  the  men 
awkward  and  the  women  dowdy.  He  had  just  enough  of 
growth  and  education  to  show  him  the  difference  between 
them  and  himself  without  making  him  see  the  resem 
blance.  He  knew  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  him 
self  ;  but  all  the  time  he  was  nervously  thinking,  "  Suppose 
my  college  friends  should  see  me  now  1 "  It  is  a  trial  for 
the  most  generous  youthful  nature  to  feel  himself  su 
perior  to  those  around  him,  without  knowing  the  reason 
of  his  superiority,  and  all  the  time  calling  it  into  ques 
tion.  Then,  to  make  matters  worse,  they  asked  him  to 
teach  a  class  in  the  Sunday-school ;  and  he  was  obliged 
openly  to  refuse.  That  cut  his  mother's  heart,  and  the 
neighbours  looked  at  each  other  significantly.  This  was 
the  college-bred  young  preacher  !  "  He  is  so  filled  with 
emotion  over  his  father's  baptism,"  he  heard  his  mother 
explaining  to  the  women  later. 

After  Sunday-school,  all  climbed  into  the  wagons,  and 
drove  to  the  pond  up  the  creek:  that  was  the  chosen 
place  of  baptism.  The  roads  were  heavy  and  the  horses 
slow;  "and  all  the  way  back,"  sighed  Hubert.  He  was 
hungry  and  tired  with  sitting. 

At  the  pond  the  people  clambered  out,  and  the  men 
tied  the  horses  to  trees.  Then  they  began  arranging  for 
the  ceremonies,  Sam  and  Hubert  standing  close  by  their 
father.  The  pond  was  a  pretty  place  in  summer,  made 


144  Quicksand 

by  a  widening  in  the  creek.  It  was  usually  shallow  and 
quiet,  and  lilies  grew  on  its  border.  But  at  this  time  of 
year  there  were  rains,  and  the  water  was  sullen  and 
muddy.  The  flowers  were  not  yet  in  bloom,  and  the 
banks  were  soggy  with  the  tramping  of  cattle.  There 
was  a  house  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  the  fourteen 
who  were  to  be  baptized  went  over  there  to  make  ready. 
All  of  them  put  on  old  clothes,  the  women  old  wrappers 
or  dresses,  the  men  loose  shirts  and  overalls,  invariably 
with  ridiculous  suspenders.  Mr.  Hinckley  was  the  best 
dressed  of  them  all.  His  wife  had  insisted  on  his  keep 
ing  on  his  white  shirt;  and  he  wore  a  pair  of  black 
trousers  and  a  vest,  making  him  almost  a  gentleman  in 
comparison  with  the  motley  crowd.  The  neighbours  all 
said,  as  usual,  that  the  Hinckleys  were  stuck  up;  but 
Mrs.  Hinckley  rather  enjoyed  that,  and  Libbie  quite 
revelled  in  the  distinction.  Mary  was  frightened  to  death 
lest  her  father  should  cough,  and  went  over  with  him  to 
the  house  with  her  mother,  making  them  walk  very  slowly 
on  the  way  back  that  he  might  not  get  short  of  breath. 

How  ridiculous  it  all  looked  now  to  the  blushing  and 
retiring  boy!  He  could  not  see  the  genuine  simplicity 
that  may  make  the  most  common  things  holy. 

Two  of  the  old  deacons,  arrayed  in  blue  overalls  and 
checked  shirts,  their  bare  white  feet  stepping  gingerly, 
first  entered  the  muddy  shallow  water.  They  had  poles, 
and  were  sounding  for  a  deep  place.  Then  the  preacher 
stepped  cautiously  after.  The  preacher  was  Mr.  Simmons 
from  Fort  Madison,  the  boy  prodigy  having  long  left 
the  country  on  his  work  as  evangelist.  How  funny  the 
dignified,  red-whiskered  Mr.  Simmons  looked,  stepping 
down  into  the  mushy  soft  mud  and  thence  into  the  water  1 
He  wore  his  usual  dress  of  black,  a  long  coat  known  as 
Prince  Albert,  —  the  regulation,  always,  for  ministers. 


Qjiicksand  145 

They  could  hear  the  water  squashing  in  his  shoes.  Then 
it  rose  around  his  trousers.  He  looked  funnier  now  to 
Hubert  than  the  deacons,  one  of  whom  led  him  cautiously 
out  till  the  water  was  up  to  his  middle.  His  black  coat- 
tails  floated  like  an  ominous  raft  until  he  thought  to  pat 
them  carefully  under,  where,  once  wet,  they  would  hang 
like  rubber  cloth.  He  raised  his  hands  after  patting  the 
coat-tails,  and  solemnly  called  for  God's  blessing.  The 
mud  bottom  seemed  a  little  insecure;  and,  lifting  his 
hands  from  the  old  deacon's  shoulder,  he  gave  a  lurch, 
and  came  near  going  under.  No  one  laughed  at  this, 
and  Hubert  was  too  near  crying  for  laughter. 

Then  the  procession  began :  the  women  first,  one  at  a 
time,  each  piloted  along  by  a  deacon  who  came  and  went 
with  his  staff;  each  taken  by  the  preacher  and  another 
deacon  and  tipped  backward  into  the  water,  to  come 
up  spluttering  and  gasping,  but  often  shouting  hallelu 
jah  or  singing  or  praying  in  the  water.  Two  of  them 
had  to  be  dragged  out  by  their  friends, —  they  seemed  in 
danger  of  drowning. 

His  father  was  the  first  man  to  go.  Oh,  the  shame 
:that  he  felt  for  his  father,  and  the  control  he  must  keep 
of  his  face  because  his  mother  was  watching  him  1  The 
|  old  man  went  down  very  quietly  There  was  a  certain 
dignity  about  the  father  that  the  boy  would  never  possess. 
But  the  gasping  from  the  cold  water  set  him  coughing. 
He  was  in  a  fit  of  it  when  they  put  him  under,  and  did 
not  recover  from  his  paroxysms  while  Sam  and  Mary 
were  leading  him  away  the  long  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the 
house,  where  they  could  furnish  him  with  his  dry 
clothing. 

The  ceremony  dragged  a  little  at  the  end.  One  young 
man  was  afraid  to  go  under,  and  the  preacher  did  not 
have  strength  enough  left.  His  brother  had  to  wade  out 


146  Quicksand 

to  help  them,  and  he  had  brought  no  change  of  garments. 
Then  the  wet,  shivering  procession  was  started  through 
the  ploughed  field  to  the  house,  and  others  who  had  no 
reason  for  waiting  began  to  get  into  their  wagons  to  go 
home.  Minister  Simmons  was  the  last  to  come  out, 
being  led  by  the  deacons.  He  was  shivering  and  shak 
ing  with  cold ;  and  Libbie  was  laughing  in  front  of  him, 
talking  to  Frank  Underwood. 

Hubert  stood  miserably  about  till  Sam  and  Mary  re 
turned  with  their  father.  Mr.  Hinckley  seemed  too  weak 
to  talk,  and  he  was  shaking  as  if  in  an  ague.  They 
helped  him  into  the  wagon,  and,  getting  hurriedly  ready, 
began  the  slow  drive  in  the  mud,  Sam  growling  a  good 
deal  at  the  horses. 

There  was  barely  time  for  a  hasty  lunch  at  home,  and 
then  Sam  drove  Hubert  off  to  the  station.  They  did  not 
have  much  of  a  parting.  They  were  getting  the  father  to 
bed  and  surrounding  him  with  bottles  of  hot  water.  Sam 
had  little  to  say  on  the  road,  and  the  black  mud  seemed 
blacker  than  usual. 


XXIII. 

MR.  HINCKLEY  never  rose  from  his  bed, 
though  the  illness  seemed  willing  to  linger.  At 
one  time  they  thought  of  sending  for  Hubert,  but 
decided  to  wait  for  his  examinations.  He  did  not  stay 
to  the  exercises  of  commencement,  though  a  Junior 
should  have  been  in  attendance.  Once  more  Sam  and 
Mary  met  him  at  the  little  station,  this  time  with  more 
solemn  faces  than  he  remembered  on  the  previous  meeting. 

"  You'd  better  go  right  in  and  see  your  father,"  Mrs. 
Hinckley  said  after  kissing  him.  "  He's  having  one  of 
his  nervous  spells  to-night,  and  is  a  little  worse  than 
usual." 

Hubert  stepped  into  the  darkened  front  room,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  Hiram  sitting  by  the  lounge  on  which 
his  worn  father  was  lying. 

"  He's  asleep  just  now.  Wait  a  little,"  said  Hiram, 
stretching  out  his  hand ;  but  the  movement  wakened  the 
slumberer,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  around. 

"  Ah,  here's  Hubert  1 "  he  said  quite  naturally. 
"  Now  you  may  go,  if  you  like,  Hiram.  I  think  I  shall 
be  better  now.  I  have  these  sinking  spells,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Hubert,  "and  Hiram  understands  how  to 
handle  me."  He  sat  up  while  Hiram  arranged  a  pillow 
at  his  back. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Hinckley,"  said  Hiram,  cheerfully. 
"  I  will  call  in  some  time  to-morrow."  And  the  father  and 
son  were  left  alone. 

The  mother  soon  came  in,  however ;  and  Libbie  was 
hovering  around.  They  wanted  to  hear  Hubert's  talk  of 
the  college,  and  of  the  honours  he  had  taken  in  the  con 
test,  and  how  he  had  been  first  in  his  examinations. 
This  was  payment  for  their  long  seasons  of  denial  and 


148  Qjiicksand 


drudgery.  Hubert  felt  this,  and  spoke  of  his  successes 
freely.  All  the  time,  as  they  were  going  about  through 
the  usual  routine  of  cooking,  eating,  dish-washing,  and 
sweeping,  the  boy  felt  that  there  was  nothing  the  same. 
The  shadow  of  death  was  in  the  house ;  and,  however 
cheerful  they  might  seem,  they  were  frightened  and 
heavy  at  heart. 

The  next  morning  Hubert  learned,  from  questioning 
Mary,  that  the  physician  had  said  their  father  might  live 
through  the  summer,  with  care,  but  they  could  hardly 
hope  for  much  more.  Mary  also  told  him  that  he  had 
spoken  but  little  of  his  religion  since  the  day  he  had  been 
baptised,  but  that  in  every  way  he  seemed  very  peaceful, 
except  when  his  weakness  came  on  him,  and  then  he 
could  not  rest  without  Hiram  beside  him.  He  would 
tremble  and  shake  as  with  palsy  till  Hiram  took  hold  of 
his  hand. 

The  vacation  days  dragged  by,  and  Hubert  had  time 
to  become  familiar  with  all  of  their  narrowing  home 
atmosphere.  He  felt  the  environment  closing  in  daily 
about  him.  It  weighed  on  his  breathing  as  heavily  as 
\  the  oncoming  of  his  father's  death.  "  What  is  it  ? "  he 
kept  asking  himself :  "  is  it  religion  or  sorrow  or  fate  ? 
It  seems  like  a  pressure  of  love."  They  were  all  so  dear 
to  one  another,  each  miserable  because  the  other  was 
suffering. 

Libbie, —  what  was  ailing  with  her  ?  She  seemed  to  be 
burning  to  death  from  some  inwardly  consuming  fire. 
She  moved  about  restlessly,  talking,  always  talking.  She 
must  do  this  for  father,  she  must  save  that  for  mother  or 
Sam,  she  must  deny  herself  this  for  poor  Mary's  sake; 
and  then,  when  they  were  least  expecting  it,  at  some  little 
chance  remark  from  one  of  them,  she  would  break  out 
into  a  terrible  passion,  scolding,  and  accusing  them  of 


Qjiicksand  149 

selfishness,  and  of  forgetting  all  she  had  done  for  them. 
They  were  used  to  these  ravings  of  hysteria  from  their 
mother :  were  they  now  being  transferred  to  Libbie  ?  It 
seemed  that  way;  for  now,  when  the  daughter  was 
afflicted,  the  mother,  as  if  seeing  the  absurdity  of  it,  be 
came  more  rational  and  self-controlled.  As  Hubert 
watched  the  actions  of  his  sister,  he  could  see  that  she 
was  excited  by  mention  of  Hiram,  though  apparently 
calmed  by  his  presence.  He  was  not  experienced 
enough  in  the  analysis  of  human  passion  to  realise  the 
meaning  of  this.  He  thought  that  Libbie  was  jealous  of 
Mary's  love  for  another  than  herself:  she  seemed  pas 
sionately  devoted  to  Mary,  and  wanted  to  be  with  her 
always.  In  a  measure  his  conclusions  were  correct,  but 
her  had  not  dug  down  to  first  causes. 

Mary,  patient,  hard-working,  quiet  Mary, —  how  worn  and 
tired  she  looked !  Her  sensitive  mouth  seemed  wearied 
with  smiling.  She  moved  about  the  kitchen  constantly, 
rarely  coming  into  the  ever-waiting  room, —  the  room  that 
was  waiting  for  death.  She  sat  sometimes  with  her  father  in 
the  sunshine  while  she  was  preparing  the  vegetables  for 
dinner.  That  was  before  he  took  permanently  to  his  bed, 
before  Hiram  took  to  coming  so  often.  Mary  rarely  came 
in  when  Hiram  was  there,  it  always  made  Libbie  so  ner 
vous.  She  was  often  busy  with  her  mother,  moreover; 
for,  as  the  time  shortened,  the  mother  was  very  dependent 
on  her  children,  asking  them  to  bandage  her  head  or 
bathe  her  hands  or  keep  the  fan  moving  while  she  could 
sleep.  She  had  very  little  rest  at  night ;  for,  if  her  hus 
band  was  restlessly  sleeping,  she  was  keeping  herself 
awake  with  her  prayers. 

Hubert  found  himself  drawn  much  closer  to  them.  He 
wondered  if  he  could  ever  get  away.  He  made  up  his 
mind,  in  that  full  tide  of  his  love,  that  he  would  not  go 


150  Qjjicksand 

back  to  college ;  that  he  would  stay  here  and  live  on  the 
farm,  and  always  be  gentle  and  affectionate,  and  work  for 
them  when  Sam  was  growing  old.  Then  he  thought  how 
they  would  demand  him  to  be  religious.  They  would  ex 
pect  him  to  conduct  family  prayers  and,  maybe,  to  speak 
at  the  prayer-meetings  on  Wednesdays.  He  could  not 
endure  the  thought  of  his  own  hypocrisy.  He  could  not 
endure  telling  his  mother  of  his  change.  For  relief,  he 
turned  to  the  death-bed  of  his  father.  Here,  at  least,  was 
honest,  unmixed  sorrow ;  and  death  would  leave  no  tangle 
at  the  end. 

When  he  went  to  his  father  now,  he  usually  found 
Hiram  sitting  there  waiting,  holding  the  sick  man's  hand. 
Strong,  stalwart  Hiram  Stubbs  1  What  was  this  wrong  he 
had  done  him  in  thinking  him  boorish  and  ignorant? 
What  one  of  his  college  professors,  what  one  of  his  well- 
cultured  friends,  could  come  and  sit  here  by  this  bed,  his 
presence  breathing  peace  in  the  house  ?  Hiram  was  the 
spiritual  physician.  Their  cares  lifted  whenever  he  came : 
only  the  solemnity  of  sorrow  was  with  them.  Hubert 
used  to  look  at  him  often,  wondering  why  they  should  not 
let  Mary  marry  him.  Why  should  they  oppose  her 
wishes  ?  Hiram  was  handsome  and  well-to-do.  His  new 
house  was  long  since  completed.  It  would  not  be  like 
taking  Mary  away  altogether.  She  could  easily  come 
back  and  forth.  Was  it  this  terrible  religion  that  was 
binding  them  down  ?  Other  religious  people  were  not  so. 
No,  it  was  their  love  for  each  other.  They  could  not 
bear  to  see  one  go  away.  Indeed,  how  could  mother  and 
Libbie  get  along,  nervous  and  quarrelling  in  their  tan 
trums?  Still,  they  must  think  of  Mary  herself;  and 
Hiram,  too,  had  his  rights.  In  leaning  over  to  whisper 
that  he  had  changed,  that  henceforth  he  would  work  for 
his  marriage  with  Mary,  he  hardly  saw  the  sympathetic 


Qjiicksand  151 

smile  on  the  waiting  man's  face,  he  was  so  startled  to 
see  his  hair  was  half  gray,  brindled  in  thick  with  the  yel 
low  on  the  temples  and  round  behind  the  ears. 

One  day  they  were  summoned  to  the  bedside  to  take 
the  final  farewell.  It  was  a  hot  morning  in  the  middle  of 
August.  How  could  a  man  die  then  with  cold?  Yet 
cold  had  been  creeping  up  for  hours  from  his  feet,  and 
now  was  closing  on  his  heart.  Did  Hubert  love  his  father 
so  much,  or  did  the  grief  of  the  others  weigh  on  him? 
The  man  he  had  never  kissed  before  in  his  life  was  now 
beckoning  a  first  kiss  of  death.  Hubert  made  way  for 
Libbie  next,  whose  face  was  a  contortion  of  weeping  and 
shoulders  tearing  with  sobs.  Then  Mary  knelt  down,  cry 
ing  silently ;  and  then  Sam  was  making  a  promise  to  take 
good  care  of  his  mother.  The  poor  mother,  companion  of 
forty  years, —  it  was  her  turn  to  last  touch  his  cheek  with 
hers,  and  pillow  his  head  on  her  face.  She  was  conceal 
ing  his  face,  bending  over  him.  They  could  only  see  or 
feel  the  long  shudder  as  they  knelt  or  stood  weeping 
around  his  bed. 

Hiram  1  He  had  not  said  good-by  to  Hiram  I  All  of 
them  had  forgotten  him  1  Then  they  learned  that  the 
dead  man  had  not ;  for  his  left  hand,  stretching  out  at  the 
back,  was  clutching  the  great  palm,  as  if  to  hold  steady, 
and  had  been  so  while  he  was  kissing  them  all.  Now,  even 
in  death,  it  held  fast ;  and,  when  the  strong,  living  man 
unclinched  the  stiffening  fingers,  they  saw  the  white  print 
of  the  grip,  a  livid  mark  on  the  ruddy,  warm  palm. 


XXIV. 

THE  funeral  was  held  at  the  school-house,  accord 
ing  to  the  custom  of  the  neighbourhood.  To  ex 
quisitely  sensitive  people  there  is  something  repug 
nant  in  the  public  display  of  grief  so  often  witnessed  at 
funerals.  But  with  ordinary  people  this  is  not  true. 
They  find  solace  and  comfort  in  falling  back  at  the  time 
on  the  conventions, —  the  mourning  garments  they  are  to 
wear,  the  weight  of  the  veils,  the  width  of  the  borders  on 
handkerchiefs,  the  arrangements  of  flowers  for  the  coffin. 
All  of  these  little  details  take  up  the  dreary  time  of  the 
waiting  till  the  house  shall  be  relieved  of  its"  death  pres 
ence,  and  they  can  come  back  and  mourn  in  reality  over 
the  loneliness  that  is  with  them, 

There  is,  too,  a  genuine  and  gregarious  comfort  in  hav 
ing  the  sympathy  of  a  crowd,  in  walking  immediately 
after  the  coffin,  and  having  all  eyes  upon  one  to  see  if  she 
is  bearing  it  well.  The  sympathy  is  soothing  and  re 
spectful.  Certainly,  she  will  not  cry  now,  walking  in  the 
stiff  black  garments,  the  veil  drawn  over  the  white  face. 
Then  some  note  of  tenderness  in  the  sermon,  some  mem 
ory  a  word  has  brought  up,  will  set  the  mourner's  sobs  to 
rising,  and  hot  tears  will  rush  to  the  eyes.  "  Poor  thing, 
how  hard  she  is  taking  it  1  "  think  all  the  watchers  behind 
her ;  and  there  is  now  a  comfort  in  the  crying  in  public, 
where  before  there  was  comfort  in  not  crying.  This  is 
the  curious  complication  with  ordinary  people,  though  the 
super-sensitive  will  scorn  it. 

Poor,  passion-tossed  Libbie  Hinckley  1  What  compli 
cations  she  had  to  deal  with  I  There  seemed  but  one 
thing  burning  in  her  thoughts  as  she  stood  black-veiled 
before  the  mirror,  and  that  was  that  she  would  ride  with 
Hiram.  Otherwise,  she  could  not  bear  up  with  the  grief, 


Qjiicksand  153 

she  could  not  see  her  father  buried.  She  knew  that  the 
spring  wagon  would  follow  the  hearse,  and  after  that  two 
would  ride  in  Hiram's  buggy.  Her  mother  had  especially 
asked  Hiram  to  go  with  them  as  one  of  the  family.  She 
thought  he  was  going  in  the  spring  wagon  with  them,  but 
of  this  she  was  not  quite  sure. 

She  went  up  to  Hiram  during  the  preparations  for 
starting.  "Who  will  go  in  your  buggy,  Hiram?"  she 
asked. 

"  Hubert,  I  believe,"  answered  Hiram.  "  Your  mother 
wants  Sam  to  ride  with  her.  She  is  afraid  the  horses 
will  be  restless." 

Libbie  would  have  liked  going  with  Hiram  in  his  own 
buggy ;  but  being,  as  she  was,  the  eldest  daughter,  she 
ought  to  be  next  to  the  hearse.  She  and  Hiram  would 
sit  on  the  seat  behind  her  mother,  and  that  would  be 
comfort  enough.  She  slipped  back  to  where  Mary  was 
fussing  with  her  veil, —  the  crepe  was  so  stiff  she  could 
not  tie  it. 

"  You  are  to  ride  in  Hiram's  buggy,  dear,"  she  said, 
tying  the  veil  prettily  for  her.  "  Hurry  up  1  Mother  is 
in  the  wagon,  and  the  hearse  is  ready  to  go." 

Mary  could  not  understand  why  she  should  be  put  with 
Hiram.  Perhaps  there  was  some  mistake ;  but  it  was 
late,  and  she  would  not  bother.  She  climbed  into  the 
single  buggy,  as  she  was  bid,  by  the  side  of  Ned  Johnson, 
who  was  holding  the  horse. 

Libbie  was  in  her  coveted  back  seat,  arranging  the  lap- 
robe  on  her  knees,  when  Hubert  climbed  in  beside  her. 

"Go  back  in  the  buggy,"  she  said:  "mother  intends 
for  you  to  drive  with  Mary.  Hiram  is  one  of  the  chief 
mourners  to-day." 

"It  is  all  right  Stay  right  where  you  are,"  said 
Hiram.  "  I  think  I'd  better  drive  my  own  horse.  It's 


Qjiicksand 


safer,  and  he  might  be  skittish."  He  signalled  the  hearse 
driver  to  start,  and  got  in  beside  Mary. 

Libbie  looked  her  wrath  on  them  as  she  was  turning. 
It  had  all  been  arranged,  she  thought,  forgetting  that  she 
herself  had  been  arranging.  Hubert  said  something 
about  the  rug,  —  she  was  getting  it  under  her  feet;  but 
she  snapped  at  him  like  some  wild  animal.  She  could 
attend  to  her  own  affairs,  she  said,  —  let  him  see  that  he 
did  the  same. 

Poor  Libbie  !  she  could  not  cry  during  the  sermon  :  the 
hot  rage  dried  up  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking  of  how 
she  had  seen  Hiram  helping  Mary  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  of  how  becoming  black  was  to  Mary  with  the  stiff 
veil  over  her  white  face.  And  Hiram,  —  how  handsome  he 
was,  dressed  in  his  best  suit  of  black,  the  suit  he  had 
bought  for  his  wedding  !  And  neither  of  them  was  think 
ing  of  her.  Hiram  was  holding  her  fan.  Ah  !  she  had 
turned  away  and  walked  ahead,  she  could  not  bear  it. 
And  her  poor  father  dead  before  them,  and  they  not 
weeping  at  all.  Then  she  thought  of  herself  and  her 
father,  and  how  soon  they  would  walk  around  to  look 
into  the  coffin  and  see  his  dear  face  for  the  last  time, 
before  the  lid  was  screwed  on.  How  could  she  look  the 
last  time,  with  all  this  hatred  in  her  heart  !  Nobody 
cared  how  she  felt  1  Hubert  was  mooning  over  his 
gloves,  and  the  two  she  hated  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the 
aisle,  —  her  mother  and  Sam  shut  them  from  view.  Oh, 
would  the  preacher  never  stop  !  and  how  long  would  old 
Johnson  keep  praying  ! 

The  solemn  procession  began  moving  to  take  the  last 
view  of  the  dead.  The  mourners  would  wait  till  the  last. 
Hiram  and  Mary  were  rising  and  coming  forward.  Mary 
was  holding  Hiram's  arm.  No,  she  would  prevent  it.  She 
rose  to  step  in  between  them  ;  but  the  undertaker  from 


Qjuicksand  155 

Fort  Madison  was  watching,  and  firmly  held  her  back. 
"  These  two  first :  they  go  in  the  second  carriage,"  he 
said ;  for  he  could  not  brook  any  disorder. 

"  Can  I  not  see  my  own  father  ? "  said  Libbie,  now 
fairly  crying  with  vexation.  "  In  a  moment,  in  a 
moment,"  said  the  undertaker,  kindly;  and  Hiram  was 
leading  away  the  weeping  Mary,  and  Libbie  was  gently 
pushed  toward  the  coffin. 

Oh,  the  dead  face,  turned  up  toward  her  as  if  it  were 
reflected  from  a  mirror  1  The  white,  strange  yet  well- 
known  features,  the  last  time  she  should  see  them  on 
earth !  Hubert  was  timidly  holding  her  arm.  Her  sobs 
and  cries  shook  her  poor  body.  She  could  not  be  led 
away.  She  would  not  go.  She  must  stay  here.  Both 
Sam  and  the  undertaker  had  to  lead  her,  and  help  her 
into  the  carriage.  The  mother  was  content  to  be  alone, 
and  walked  out  gropingly  to  join  them. 

"  Poor  Libbie  takes  it  harder  than  any,"  said  the  pity 
ing  neighbours.  "  She  was  dreadful  fond  of  her  father." 

Even  now  she  was  sitting  in  the  carriage,  she  was  only 
intent  on  getting  out.  She  had  seen  the  two  in  the  little 
buggy  behind  her ;  and  she  felt  that  she  would  go  and 
pull  her  sister  out,  no  matter  how  it  scandalised  them 
all.  She  struggled  with  Sam,  who  was  holding  her.  Pie 
thought  her  grief  had  made  her  beside  herself,  and  his 
iron  grip  was  on  her.  "  You  drive  with  mother,"  he  said 
to  Hubert,  and  gave  his  attentions  to  Libbie.  She  felt 
the  wagon  moving  with  her.  There  was  now  only  one 
thing  to  do :  that  was  to  sit  still  for  the  three  long,  dreary 
miles,  with  the  knowledge  of  those  two  behind  her, —  to  sit 
there  with  but  one  thought  in  her  heart,  and  that  one  hold 
ing  her  in  torture.  She  would  get  into  the  buggy  to  ride 
back  with  Hiram  :  no  power  on  earth  should  prevent  her. 
She  tried  to  think  of  her  father  as  the  slow  procession 


156  Qjiicksand 

moved  toward  the  graveyard.  She  tried  to  think  of  him 
on  getting  out  and  while  the  coffin  was  being  lowered. 
But  there  was  only  one  thought  within  her,  saying  itself 
over  and  over  again :  "  I  will  go  back  with  Hiram !  I 
will  go  back  with  Hiram  !  "  They  were  singing ;  but  all 
that  she  heard  was  :  "  I  will  go  back  !  I  will  1 " 

When  the  heavy  clods  struck  the  box  over  the  coffin, 
the  mother  fell  on  her  son's  neck,  weeping  and  calling 
him  to  help  her.  Mary  felt  a  weakness  in  her  knees.  She 
was  falling  in  a  faint,  when  Hiram  caught  her.  With  a 
whisper  to  Hubert,  Hiram  picked  up  the  woman  he  loved, 
and  carried  her  bodily  to  his  carriage,  leaped  in,  and  was 
driving  away. 

Libbie  had  been  distracted  a  moment  by  the  sudden 
grief  of  her  mother.  When  she  turned,  Hiram  and  Mary 
were  gone.  She  saw  him  just  stepping  into  the  carriage, 
and  one  arm  was  around  Mary  as  he  took  his  seat. 
She  saw  him  place  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  Then  the 
turning  top  shut  them  from  view.  Libbie  spoke  calmly 
to  Hubert,  and  asked  him  to  drive  up  with  the.  team. 
She  undertook  to  help  her  mother  away.  There  was  no 
good  of  waiting  any  longer.  Why  did  not  Sam  hurry  the 
horses  ?  They  could  not  stand  the  heat,  he  replied. 

All  the  way  home  she  was  cursing, —  cursing  with  a 
calmness  in  her  face.  Even  and  regular  were  her  actions, 
but  the  raging  of  the  jealousy  within  I  Only  one  picture 
in  her  vision, —  Hiram  driving  away  and  Mary's  drooping 
head  on  his  shoulder.  She  cursed  them  all  in  her  heart, — 
her  sister  over  and  over,  her  and  the  man  she  hated  and 
loved.  She  cursed  Sam  for  his  slowness  and  Hubert 
for  his  stupid  dreaming;  and  her  mother  she  cursed 
because  she  was  her  mother,  and  herself  most  of  all,  and 
Godl  How  could  God  curse  himself?  But  the  Devil 
might  rise  up,  and  curse  him.  She  prayed  to  the  Devil, 


Qjiicksand  157 

and  promised  him  her  soul  everlasting  if  he  would  rise 
up  and  curse  God  for  her.  This  fire  of  hell  burned 
within  her,  never  slacking  for  the  hour  on  the  road.  And 
all  the  time  she  was  outwardly  quiet,  speaking  to  Hubert 
of  the  river,  of  the  steamboats  that  passed,  and  their 
names,  with  little  anecdotes  and  happenings  of  the  houses 
and  people  along  the  road. 


XXV. 

BACK  in  the  quiet  groves  once  more,  our  hero  falls 
in  love.  There  was  a  pretty  girl,  Maud  Wheeler, 
who  lived  in  the  house  next  to  his.  She  was  a 
student,  too,  a  Freshman  and  eighteen  years  of  age.  She 
was  a  perfect  blonde,  silken,  curling  hair  around  her  face 
and  crown,  soft  and  young  as  a  baby's  hair.  Her  eyes 
were  violet  blue,  her  skin  most  delicate  in  texture,  flush 
ing  shell-pink  with  mischief,  her  features  dainty  and  arch. 
She  was  dressed  in  white  when  he  saw  her  first,  with  pale 
blue  ribbons  fluttering.  She  swung  in  a  hammock  under 
the  trees  most  of  the  afternoon,  and  her  book  lay  idle  on 
the  grass ;  and  the  sun  flecked  the  envious  shade  fighting 
for  place  on  her  dress. 

It  was  a  very  beautiful  time  to  love.  Hubert  had 
taken  a  different  room  that  year.  The  place  was  almost 
lonely  among  the  trees.  His  room-mate  already  had  a 
sweetheart,  and  was  away  the  most  of  the  time.  If  Hu 
bert  had  a  partner,  too,  they  could  rent  a  carriage  on 
Saturday,  and  the  four  go  on  long  excursions  to  the  river. 
There  was  economy,  almost,  in  the  proposition  ;  and  Maud 
was  so  dainty  and  sweet ! 

Hubert  began  liking  her  because  she  laughed.  He 
himself  was  inclined  to  sadness  except  in  moments  of 
enthusiasm,  when  he  could  be  very  gay.  But  Maud  was 
always  laughing,  making  some  cause  for  mirth  if  none 
already  existed.  She  would  hate  the  dusty,  old  college, 
she  told  Hubert  the  first  day  he  stopped  by  the  hammock, 
if  it  were  not  —  here  she  looked  down  coyly  —  if  it  were 
not  there  were  so  many  handsome  young  men.  Hubert 
was  in  the  humour  for  such  sentiments.  He,  too,  was  tired 
of  books.  A  Senior  is  by  duty  superior  to  them.  He  had 
just  come  from  the  strain  and  the  gloom  of  his  home. 


Qjiicksand  159 

What  wonder  that  he  should  fall  in  love  with  a  pale,  little 
sylph  in  a  hammock  ? 

Professor  Saunders  and  his  wife  had  departed,  returned 
to  the  East  whence  they  came,  bearing  with  them  their 
delicate  china  and  the  rare  toys  he  had  learned  to  love. 
Now,  here  in  the  hammock  the  very  first  week  of  his 
return  was  a  rare  toy  as  delicate  as  the  china,  floating 
and  beckoning  to  him.  What  could  he  do  but  sit  on  the 
grass,  and  say  all  the  clever  things  and  assume  all  the 
clever  airs  that  his  three  years  in  college  had  taught  him  ? 

Maud  laughed  at  everything  he  said.  She  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  clever.  She  was  born  in  Des  Moines,  and 
used  to  the  ways  of  the  city.  Her  mother  had  died  when 
she  was  little,  and  her  father  had  been  dead  now  two 
years.  He  had  been  a  travelling  agent.  She  had  a 
home  with  her  step-mother, —  a  good  home,  for  she  did  as 
she  chose  ;  but  the  step-mother  was  thinking  of  marrying 
again,  and  so  Maud  was  sent  off  to  college.  Her  step 
mother  had  chosen  this  stupid  little  hole  because  it  was 
Methodist,  and  had  very  strict  rules ;  but  here  Maud 
stopped  for  a  little  laugh.  She  would  like  to  see  the  rules 
she  could  not  slip  between  in  case  there  was  any  fun  to 
be  going. 

Her  dainty  toe  struck  the  open  Latin  grammar  where 
it  lay  as  it  had  fallen  on  the  grass.  How  she  hated 
stupid  old  grammar  1  She  deliberately  tore  out  the  leaf 
that  held  to-morrow's  lesson,  wadded  it  up  in  a  ball, 
and  threw  it  over  the  fence.  An  old  rooster  strutting 
about  thought  it  was  a  bit  of  food  for  himself,  but,  not 
finding  it  over-tasty,  began  loudly  calling  the  hens. 
"  Help  me  get  it :  it's  my  lesson  to-morrow.  The  teacher 
will  have  a  fit  if  I  fail."  And  away  she  went  through  the 
fence,  shouting  and  laughing,  after  the  old  rooster,  who 
now  prized  the  tidbit  more  highly  and  ftelcj  it  securely  in 


160  Qjuicksand 

his  bill.  Hubert  joined  in  the  chase,  and  together  they 
recovered  the  morsel  and  sent  the  chickens  all  cackling. 
"  And  it's  the  first  declension,"  gasped  Maud,  "  the  very 
one  that  I  ought  to  be  learning.  How  I  hate  to  begin 
it  1 "  And  she  spread  out  the  crumpled  leaf  spitefully.  "  I 
wish  the  old  rooster  had  eaten  it  1 " 

"  I  will  help  you,"  offered  Hubert.  "  It  is  easy  enough 
when  you  get  started." 

"  Oh,  do  help :  you  must  know  so  much,"  said  Maud, 
looking  wistfully  at  him.  "  I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  be  a 
Senior.  And  the  girls  say  you  write  such  beautiful  poetry 
and  stories  and  orations  and  everything  1  Can  you  find 
time  to  help  me  with  my  Latin  ?  Perhaps  I  could  help 
you  back  at  something.  Do  you  know  how  to  play  the 
guitar  ? 

Hubert's  eyes  spoke  their  longing,  and  Maud  knew  the 
language  of  eyes. 

"  Then  I  will  show  you  that ;  and,  first,  I  will  give  you 
your  lesson."  She  ran  into  the  house,  and  came  gleefully 
out  with  a  guitar.  "  Now  I  shall  do  exactly  as  my 
teacher  did  to  me.  Sit  down,  and  take  the  instrument  so. 
Now,  there,  this  is  the  way  you  hold  your  fingers.  Give 
it  to  me.  So, —  one,  two  three,  one,  two,  three." 

Hubert  took  the  instrument  from  her,  but  his  fingers 
were  ignorant  and  unskilled.  Maud  had  to  hold  the 
fingers  on  the  frets.  Her  fingers  were  very  cool  and 
dainty  and  of  a  marvellous  whiteness.  She  wore  a  single 
ring  of  turquoise  setting. 

"  Isn't  it  a  pretty  ring  ?  "  she  asked.  "  My  father  gave 
it  to  me  the  year  before  he  died.  You  may  take  the  guitar 
up  to  your  room  for  practice  in  the  evening.  Won't  it  be 
fun  when  you  learn  ?  And  then  you  can  accompany  me 
when  I  sing ;  and  we  can  set  your  poems  to  music.  Can 
you  sing,  Mr.  Hinckley  ? "  Hubert  had  never  been 


Qjjicksand  161 

trained.  "  Oh,  well,  then  I  can  teach  you  that.  Oh,  I 
mean  to  pay  for  my  Latin  instruction  I  " 

Hubert  here  proposed  a  beginning  of  the  Latin. 

"  Oh,  you  ought  to  have  asked  me  to  sing,"  she  pouted. 
"  You  are  not  a  bit  gracious,  Mr.  Hinckley.  But  I'm 
going  to  sing,  anyway,  just  to  spite  you.  Isn't  it  nice 
that  no  one  passes  this  street  ?  But  it'll  be  muddy,  I 
guess,  when  it  rains." 

"  There's  only  one  bad  place  on  the  corner :  there's 
plank  walk  the  rest  of  the  way." 

"  One  bad  place  is  as  bad  as  if  it  were  all  bad,"  said 
Maud,  strumming. 

"  You  might  get  some  one  to  carry  you  over  the  bad 
place,"  said  Hubert,  to  be  teasing. 

"  Why,  so  I  might !     Are  you  strong,  Mr.  Hinckley  ?  " 

"I'm  not  very  heavy,"  she  added,  when  she  saw  he  was 
stammering  and  blushing. 

Then  she  began  singing  mischievously,  the  guitar 
hugged  tight  up  to  her  cheek,  her  dainty  head  cocked  on 
one  side.  She  was  singing  a  negro  song,  "  I  love  you, 
Susan,"  her  full  lips  pursed  to  fit  the  rich  thick  Southern 
accent.  Her  eyes  were  tender  with  the  light.  The  song 
flowed  soft  and  mellow.  Maud  had  a  very  pretty  voice,  clear 
and  with  richness  of  passion  just  fitted  for  green  trees  by 
a  lane  where  but  one  person  passes  in  a  day.  The  song 
had  a  plaintive  ending :  the  slave  singer  had  been  sold  to 
the  South.  The  girl's  eyes  widened  at  this  as  she  sang  it. 
There  were  beautiful  curves  at  the  corners,  bended  like 
Cupid's  bow.  Tears  would  be  pretty  in  Maud's  eyes  ;  and 
they  might  come,  too,  in  any  gentle  sympathy.  She  had 
a  kind  heart,  it  could  be  seen  very  plainly ;  and  the  young 
poet  was  trembling  with  pleasure  by  the  time  she  had 
finished  the  song. 

"  I  should  hate  Latin,  too,  if  I  could  sing  like  that,"  he 
said  dreamily. 


162  Qjiicksand 

Her  laugh  again  rang  out  merrily.  "  Oh,  you  must 
laugh  more.  You  are  too  sad,  Mr.  Hinckley.  I  must 
teach  you  to  laugh  as  well  as  sing.  There  are  a  great 
many  things  for  me  to  teach  you." 

"  Teach  me  to  laugh  now,"  pleaded  Hubert,  "  or  will 
you  sing  for  me  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  want  everything  for  nothing,"  she  cried. 
"  You  are  beginning  like  all  other  boys." 

"  Very  well,  now  we  will  do  the  Latin,"  he  said  play 
fully.  "  This  is  the  nominative  case.  Say  that  first." 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  pronounce  it." 

"  Why,  have  you  not  studied  over  the  rules  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  never  follow  rules." 

"  You  must  in  Latin." 

"  Very  well,  if  I  can  do  as  I  choose  in  English." 

"  Now  say  these  over  after  me,  and  I  will  explain  the 
rules." 

"  Yes,  please,"  mocked  Maud,  demurely. 

She  was  very  bright,  and  remembered  with  remarkable 
facility.  It  was  too  soon  when  the  lesson  had  ended  and 
Hubert  was  going  away. 

Once,  when  they  had  bent  close  over  the  torn  page  to 
make  out  a  disputed  case  of  spelling,  her  soft  hair  had 
brushed  against  his  cheek.  He  was  thinking  of  it  after 
he  had  gone  to  bed. 


XXVI. 

HUBERT  had  read  in  the  poets  about  love,  and 
had  even  done  love-poems  himself;  but  he  had 
never  supposed  it  was  so  beautiful.  He  went 
about  blessed  in  all  things.  It  was  like  his  religious 
ecstasy  at  the  time  when  he  became  converted,  only  this 
was  sweeter  and  more  thorough:  it  caught  in  his  body 
more,  while  the  other  had  been  imagination.  Besides, 
this  fire  was  being  constantly  renewed,  was  changing  in 
magnitude  and  colour  according  as  he  moved  with  his 
beloved.  There  was  no  interruption  from  the  start. 
Maud  told  him  afterward  that  she  had  loved  him  the  very 
first  time  she  saw  him ;  and,  though  both  men  and  maids 
let  their  memories  exaggerate  for  them  at  such  periods,  it 
was  evident  that  he  needed  only  to  declare  himself  in 
order  that  he  be  accepted.  Of  course,  he  knew  his 
gloomy  periods  of  doubting,  vowing  that  he  could  not  be 
worthy  of  such  a  treasure ;  but  the  two  were  quivering 
with  their  magnetism  before  they  had  been  many  weeks 
together,  and  the  words  only  needed  to  be  spoken  that 
they  might  rush  into  natural  union. 

The  words  were  not  spoken,  however,  until  after  the 
Christmas  vacation.  The  two  weeks'  separation  had 
brought  them  to  it.  Hubert  made  up  his  mind  while 
enduring  that  laggard  monotony  that  he  never  would 
leave  Maud  again  if  only  she  would  let  him  be  near  her. 
He  wrote  pages  and  pages  of  poetry,  much  of  it  to  this 
effect,  the  rest  of  it  praising  her  beauty  and  goodness,  all 
of  which  he  hid  under  the  carpet  for  fear  that  Libbie  or 
his  mother  might  find  it  when  they  came  up  to  take  care 
of  his  room. 

But  it  was  worth  the  separation  and  longing, —  the  com 
ing  together  again.  There  was  no  need  to  await  explana- 


1 64  Qjiicksand 

tions :  both  seemed  to  understand  from  the  beginning.  It 
was  very  sweet  to  say  "  Hubert "  and  "  Maud,"  to  re 
count  all  the  sufferings  of  the  past  two  weeks  and  to 
marvel  at  the  happiness  for  the  future.  Then  each  had 
to  learn  in  minutiae  all  of  the  details  of  the  life  of  the 
other.  They  began  as  far  back  as  they  could  remember, — 
Hubert  with  the  snake  hanging  down  from  the  ceiling 
of  the  cellar,  swinging  there  like  a  rope ;  and  Maud  with 
the  death  of  a  kitten  that  was  chased  by  an  ugly  black 
dog  when  she  was  three  years  old.  All  of  this  took  time 
and  seclusion,  but  the  girl  was  capable  of  arranging  for 
that.  Hubert  got  up  a  class  of  Freshmen  for  tutoring  in 
the  evenings :  it  was  even  recommended  by  the  faculty. 
It  was  to  meet  at  the  house  where  Maud  was  boarding 
on  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays.  There  was  an 
attendance  of  five  guaranteed;  but  Maud  had  arranged 
with  them  beforehand  that  they  were  to  get  back  their 
money,  and  not  come.  The  parlour  was  set  aside  for  the 
class ;  and  the  good  lady  who  kept  the  house,  after  seeing 
the  president's  permission,  did  not  think  of  putting  any 
questions,  hardly  realising  anyway  from  the  paper  that 
the  class  was  supposed  to  be  larger.  Hubert's  room-mate 
sometimes  came  in  with  his  sweetheart,  and  that  made 
the  class  seem  more  business-like.  The  convenient  ar 
rangement  for  all  pupils  made  very  good  reports  of  class 
progress  whenever  the  faculty  was  interested.  Hubert 
used  to  sit  on  the  sofa,  and  Maud  was  snuggling  beside 
him.  He  was  used  to  her  hair  brushing  his  cheek  now, 
but  the  sensation  had  lost  none  of  its  charm. 

They  talked  of  their  future  as  well  in  the  intervals  of 
remembering  the  past.  It  gradually  came  to  be  settled. 
Maud's  daring  leading  the  way.  In  the  first  place,  Hu 
bert  was  a  genius :  there  was  no  need  of  considering  that. 
The  fact  that  the  magazines  all  returned  his  poems  and 


Qjjicksand  165 

stories  with  only  a  printed  notice,  "  Not  available,"  was 
sufficient  proof  in  itself.  Hubert  had  longed  for  accept 
ance,  even  if  it  detracted  from  his  future.  He  had 
watched  the  mails  restlessly  all  winter,  counting  the  days 
till  each  manuscript  was  returned ;  but  Maud  read  up  the 
biographies  of  geniuses,  and  found  all  the  greatest  ones 
waited,  and,  she  said,  were  refused  by  the  publishers. 
Hubert  only  had  need  of  perseverance. 

They  should  be  married  at  the  end  of  the  year.  Much 
of  that,  too,  the  girl  had  arranged.  She  had  an  income, 
small,  but  sufficient, —  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  quarter. 
It  would  be  quite  enough  to  keep  them  both.  They  would 
go  to  the  city  and  settle,  Hubert  giving  all  his  time  to  his 
poems  and  stories.  Probably  he  would  want  to  write 
novels,  and  these  would  take  time  and  quiet.  He  was 
backward  about  accepting  her  money.  It  did  not  seem 
to  him  manly  to  do  it,  but  she  told  him  he  would  pay  it 
all  back  a  hundred-fold  in  a  year,  and  then  she  began 
crying,  and  saying  that  he  did  not  love  her  as  she  did  him ; 
and  in  the  end,  as  that  was  the  pleasantest,  she  had  every 
thing  her  own  way.  Chicago  seemed  to  them  the  great 
city.  They  would  go  and  settle  in  Chicago,  and  then 
Hubert  could  carry  his  manuscripts  to  the  publishers: 
that  would  save  the  expense  of  the  postage.  Besides,  they 
might  give  him  more  attention  if  they  saw  him,  and  talked 
with  him  in  the  office.  Maud  knew  all  about  cities  and 
their  ways,  from  having  grown  up  in  Des  Moines.  She 
knew  something  of  business  as  well,  for  her  father  had 
made  her  his  companion.  His  favourite  motto,  she  said, 
was  one  that  applied  to  this  matter  of  manuscripts.  "  If 
you  want  a  thing  done,  go.  If  you  don't  want  it  done, 
send."  Wait  till  they  got  to  Chicago.  The  publishers 
would  think  of  him  differently. 

It  was  decided  again,  this  time  Maud  being  consulted, 


1 66  Qjjicksand 

that  she  should  inform  her  step-mother  of  the  intended 
marriage,  but  that  Hubert's  people  should  not  be  in 
formed.  Both  of  them  were  now  of  legal  age,  he  twenty- 
one,  and  she  almost  nineteen ;  and  they  had  a  right  to  do 
as  they  chose.  Still,  she  reasoned,  her  step-mother  would 
not  interfere,  would  indeed  feel  a  moderate  relief  if  she 
were  out  of  the  way.  Her  father's  lawyer  would  probably 
come  down  to  see  them ;  but  he  was  a  sensible  man,  and, 
once  he  had  learned  of  Hubert's  respectability  and  pros 
pects,  would  ask  no  questions  further.  Her  father  had 
not  wanted  her  to  marry  for  money.  Her  annuity  had 
been  settled  upon  her,  so  that  it  would  not  be  taken  from 
her  upon  marriage.  As  she  said,  it  would  keep  them  both 
in  the  beginning ;  and  there  were  really  no  objections  for 
the  lawyer  to  offer.  In  the  spring  all  of  this  worked  out 
as  she  had  said,  proving  that  she  was  a  woman  of  judg 
ment. 

It  was  thought  best  not  to  tell  Hubert's  mother  of  the 
marriage  till  it  was  over,  because  she  would  surely  object. 
When  Hubert  thought  of  having  the  matter  common  talk 
in  the  family,  each  one  discussing  Maud,  her  money,  her 
looks,  and  her  cooking,  he  himself  felt  that  he  could  not 
bear  it.  What  affair  was  it  of  theirs  ?  He  was  to  live  in 
the  city  away  from  them,  anyway,  and  would  visit  them 
only  occasionally.  It  cut  him  to  the  quick  when  he 
thought  of  deceiving  his  mother ;  but  Maud  said  this  was 
not  a  deception,  it  was  merely  saying  nothing  at  all. 

By  spring-time,  all  was  arranged.  Hubert  would  stay 
through  his  examinations,  but  not  for  the  commencement 
exercises.  He  had  received  an  appointment  for  an  ora 
tion,  but  excused  himself  to  the  faculty  by  pleading  an 
excess  of  work.  It  was  known  that  Mrs.  Hinckley  and 
Libbie  and  Mary  were  preparing  to  be  present  at  the  ex 
ercises  ;  but  they  could  be  warned  in  good  season,  after 


Qjjicksand  167 

the  flight  was  begun.  They  would  take  out  their  license 
quietly,  with  no  extra  time  intervening.  Hubert  would  be 
through  his  examinations  early,  and  leave  an  address  for 
his  diploma  to  follow  him.  Maud  would  cut  her  last  day 
of  examinations.  They  would  be  quietly  married  by  the 
justice  and  step  on  to  the  afternoon  through-bound  express. 
It  was  simple,  and  thoroughly  planned  in  every  detail. 
Hubert  felt  that  it  was  for  the  best.  If  he  was  going  to 
ever  get  married  at  all,  he  must  keep  it  secret  from  his 
mother.  He  would  not  explain,  either,  till  then  that  he 
had  given  up  being  a  minister  and  was  going  to  devote 
himself  to  writing.  He  would  not  even  then  speak  to  her 
about  his  departure  from  her  religion.  "  What  is  the  use 
of  worrying  her  ?  "  said  the  practical  Maud.  "  You  can't 
change  her  views ;  and  what's  the  good  of  making  a  lot  of 
trouble  both  for  yourself  and  for  her  ?  Besides,  how  do 
you  know  that  you  are  not  religious  ?  I  am  a  member  of 
the  church,  in  good  standing ;  and  I  never  think  of  the 
matter,  except  perhaps  a  little  in  church,  when  I  think  I'll 
be  as  good  as  I  can." 

When  spring  came,  the  evening  classes  were  disbanded, 
having  perfectly  fulfilled  their  mission.  It  was  pleasanter 
walking  in  the  lanes.  Dreams  flowed  more  freely  in  the 
open,  and  everything  looked  toward  the  end  of  the  term. 


XXVII. 

E?E  had  been  very  even  and  quiet  at  the  Hinckley 
farm  since  the  death  of  the  father.  The  loneliness 
that  followed  had  not  been  the  loneliness  of  gloom. 
All  had  tried  to  be  cheerful ;  and  Libbie  most  of  all  had 
taken  matters  in  hand,  in  order  that  things  might  move 
pleasantly  on. 

"  Her  father's  death  has  made  her  more  thoughtful  for 
others,"  said  the  mother ;  and  Mary  made  no  remark, 
remembering  her  promise  of  silence  on  that  terrible  night 
after  the  funeral,  when  her  sister  had  grovelled  in  self- 
abasement  at  her  feet,  crawling  like  a  worm  and  calling 
out  piteously  for  forgiveness.  There  were  some  things 
that  Mary  must  keep  from  her  mother,  much  as  it  pained 
her  to  do  so,  some  things  that  she  must  not  even  tell 
Hiram,  her  shame  for  her  sister  was  so  burning ;  though 
she  did  tell  him  in  the  main  the  cause  of  the  trouble,  and 
begged  him  to  be  as  careful  as  possible  with  Libbie. 

"  Let's  just  go  away  and  get  married,  and  she'll  forget 
all  about  me  in  time,"  said  the  sensible,  over-patient 
Hiram. 

To  which  Mary  gave  the  usual  answer :  "I  cannot  go 
just  yet,  Hiram.  Mother  needs  me  more  than  ever  now, 
lonely  as  she  is  without  father." 

"  The  longer  you  stay,  the  more  she  will  depend  on 
you,"  he  said  sullenly.  "  You  have  seen  how  it  has  been 
for  the  past  three  years." 

And  Mary  would  only  plead ;  "  Wait,  Hiram, —  wait  a 
little  longer.  Mother  would  never  forgive  me,  and  Libbie 
would  quite  break  her  heart." 

"  You  love  your  mother  and  sister  more  than  you  would 
love  your  husband,"  he  grumbled. 

Then  she  went  over  to  him  quite  familiarly,  even  as  a 


Qjjicksand  169 

wife  would  do ;  and  she  took  his  tawny  head  in  her  arms, 
and  kissed  him  squarely  on  the  mouth.  "  I  love  you  so 
much,  Hiram  dear,  that  I  would  not  shirk  duty  for  your 
sake.  Now  be  strong  with  me  and  give  me  courage ;  for 
a  hundred  times  a  day,  as  I  live,  I  feel  that  my  heart  will 
wear  out  with  waiting." 

Then  what  could  a  generous  man  do  but  submit,  even 
a  sensible  man  like  Hiram  ?  He  knew  that,  if  he  should 
take  her  away  by  main  force,  even  while  she  rested  in  his 
arms,  she  would  never  cease  to  regret  the  neglected  duty 
to  her  family. 

Perhaps  Libbie  herself  gathered  strength  by  this  quiet 
but  constant  devotion ;  for  life  had  been  very  cheerful  of 
late,  as  it  moved  along  in  its  routine. 

The  month  of  June  had  come  in ;  and  there  were  violets 
growing  on  Edward  Hinckley's  grave,  transplanted  there 
from  the  woods  by  the  hands  of  the  women  who  remem 
bered  him.  It  was  a  week  before  the  commencement 
when  Hubert  was  to  graduate  from  college.  They  had 
thought  he  would  be  a  preacher  at  once,  but  he  told  them 
the  Christmas  vacation  that  it  was  customary  to  take  two 
years  more  to  prepare  one  fully  for  the  ministry.  This 
was  a  blow  to  them  all, —  a  blow  in  more  ways  than  one. 
They  could  little  spare  the  money,  they  thought.  The 
father  was  no  longer  earning  for  them,  and  there  had 
been  some  expense  for  the  funeral.  Sam  had  been  say 
ing  it  was  impossible,  but  the  women  had  reasoned  that 
they  could  bring  Sam  around. 

Libbie  was  over  the  ironing-board,  pressing  some 
pieces  of  cloth.  It  was  her  old  brown  cashmere  they 
were  making  over,  turning  it  for  the  second  time  and 
making  it  up  in  the  fashion,  with  some  new  plaid  to  serve 
secondarily  for  trimming,  but  primarily  to  conceal  the 
faded  places. 


i;o  Qjjicksand 

"We  must  dress  as  well  as  those  city  folks,"  said 
Libbie  ;  "  for  we  don't  want  Hubert  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
old  maid  sisters."  Libbie  never  minded  being  called  an 
"  old  maid,"  so  long  as  her  sister  Mary  was  included. 
Two  old  maids  was  her  by-word ;  but  one  old  maid,  and 
that  herself,  would  throw  her  into  her  tantrums. 

Mary  was  sewing  at  the  machine  in  front  of  the  window 
that  was  filled  with  geraniums.  The  sun,  spotting  through 
the  muslin  curtains,  seemed  throwing  kisses  on  her  hair. 

"  I  guess  Hubert  won't  be  ashamed  of  his  mother,  at 
all  events,  in  her  span-new  black  silk  gown  and  the  jet 
beads  all  down  the  front  of  the  basque." 

"  Say,  mother  is  pretty,  isn't  she  ?  "  said  Libbie,  stop 
ping  and  her  eyes  shining  with  affection.  "  I  often  think 
of  it  when  I  see  her  in  church,  she  is  so  tall  and  stately 
and  her  white  hair  is  so  lovely  when  it's  crimped,  just  as 
wavy  and  natural ;  and  our  mother  does  look  sweet  in  a 
bonnet.  She's  the  finest-looking  woman  in  Fort  Madison. 
I've  said  it  over  and  over." 

"  And  you  say  true,  Libbie  ;  and  here  she  comes.  She's 
got  the  mail,  I  guess.  Deacon  Johnson  went  by  a  few 
minutes  ago.  He  always  gets  our  mail." 

"  A  letter  from  Hubert,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  coming  in. 
"  I  left  my  spectacles  in  the  kitchen." 

"  She  always  likes  to  read  Hubert's  letters  alone  first," 
said  Libbie,  bringing  in  a  fresh  iron.  "  We'll  just  leave 
her  quiet  in  the  kitchen.  She'll  read  it  to  us  afterward." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  telling  us  what  train  to  take  and 
everything,"  said  Mary.  "  Look,  isn't  that  cuff  just 
sweet !  You  will  look  lovely  in  this  plaid.  It's  your 
most  becoming  colour." 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  take  us  to  his  boarding-house  ? " 
said  Libbie.  "  I  should  hate  to  go  to  a  hotel." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  so.  The  hotels,  you  know,  are  more  ex 
pensive." 


Qjiicksand  171 

"  I  shall  never  forgive  Hubert  for  refusing  to  be  the 
valedictorian.  How  could  he  be  too  busy  to  take  the  part  ? 
And  he's  the  best  orator  they've  got  in  the  college !  I 
should  have  thought  the  professors  would  not  have 
allowed  it." 

"  I  guess  the  president's  son  would  not  have  had  any 
place  on  the  programme  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Hubert's 
refusing,"  said  Mary.  "  Perhaps  he  did  it  on  that  account. 
He's  had  honours  enough,  anyway.  Think  of  the  contest 
last  winter,  and  all  he's  had  in  the  papers." 

"  He  should  have  been  thinking  of  us  who  have  been 
slaving  at  home,  and  of  mother  and  how  pleased  she 
would  be.  It  would  have  been  the  proudest  day  of  her 
life  to  hear  Hubert  give  the  valedictory." 

"  I  guess  that  '11  come  when  he's  ordained,"  said  Mary, 
beginning  to  sew.  The  machine  made  so  much  clatter 
and  noise  she  hardly  heard  Libbie  cry  out,  but  turned  as  if 
instinct  had  told  her.  Libbie  was  standing  stiff  as  with 
fright.  The  hot  iron  was  left  on  the  table,  burning  a  hole 
in  the  middle  of  her  cloth.  Her  mother  was  holding  out 
a  letter,  but  the  hand  was  shaking  so  violently  that  she 
had  to  rest  it  on  the  table. 

"Mother,  what's  the  matter?"  cried  Libbie.  "Is 
Hubert  ?  —  has  anything  happened  ?  " 

,  "  He's  married,"  said  the  mother,  sitting  down.     Her 
shaking  limbs  would  no  longer  support  her. 

Mary  rescued  the  cloth  from  the  burning  iron. 

"  That  baby  married  1  "  gasped  Libbie.  "  Without  ever 
telling  us  about  it  1  Married  !  Why,  I  never  can  believe 
it!  Why,  the  spiteful,  ungrateful,  little  "—  She  could 
not  speak,  for  her  wrath,  but  went  off  in  aspirant  explosives. 

"  Shall  we  see  his  wife  at  the  commencement  ?  Is  she 
a  student,  top  ?  "  asked  Mary,  after  the  first  shock  was 
over. 


Qjiicksand 

"  He  won't  be  at  the  commencement.  He's  gone  to 
Chicago,"  said  the  mother,  piteously. 

"  Chicago  1  Why,  the  child  will  get  lost,"  shrieked 
Libbie.  "  Who  did  he  marry,  anyway  ?  I  know  I  shall 
hate  her.  I  can  feel  it.  I'll  bet  she's  some  grasping 
old  widow  who  has  inveigled  him  away  for  his  genius,  and 
expects  to  get  into  society  by  being  a  minister's  wife." 

"  Hubert's  not  going  to  be  a  minister,"  said  the  mother, 
mechanically.  There  was  a  grey  look  on  her  face  as  of 
stone.  She  seemed  a  much  older  woman  now,  with  the 
mother  expression  departed  and  only  the  age  wrinkles 
remaining. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  mother,"  said  Libbie.  "  I  think 
you've  gone  crazy  or  something.  I  can't  make  head  nor 
tail  of  what  you  say." 

She  sat  down,  and  began  reading  aloud,  through  a  long 
page  of  pleading  for  forgiveness  and  appreciation  for  all 
they  had  done  for  him. 

"  It  sounds  as  if  he  were  dead,"  interrupted  Mary. 

"  He'd  better  be,  if  what  mother  says  is  true,"  said 
Libbie,  solemnly,  looking  up. 

"  «  Maud  '  1  What  a  bold  name  I  — '  Maud  Wheeler,'— 
1  and  young  and  sweet  and  lovely.  Hopes  we'll  love  her,' 
does  he  ?  What  does  Maud  want  with  him,  I  wonder  ? 
Maybe  she  thinks  he  is  rich." 

"  Our  boy  has  been  trapped  by  some  vile  woman,"  said 
Mrs.  Hinckley.  "  Go  on,  Libbie.  She  pretends  to  have 
money  of  her  own." 

"'A  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  quarter,' — he 
means  four  times  a  year.  Let's  see,  that's  over  forty  dol 
lars  a  month,"  said  Mary:  "that  will  keep  them  from 
starving." 

"  Oh,  that's  what  she  says,  I  suppose.  But  they'll  be 
here  on  the  farm  in  a  little  while,  and  I'll  never  do  a  lick 
of  work  for  her,"  snapped  Libbie. 


Quicksand  173 

"  Go  on,  Libbie,"  pleaded  Mary. 

"  It  was  you  who  interrupted,  wasn't  it  ?  "  But  curios 
ity  was  too  great  for  quarrelling,  and  the  letter  was  read 
to  conclusion. 

"  Chicago  1  I  suppose  they're  on  the  train  now.  I 
wonder  if  they'll  go  through  Burlington." 

"  We  might  go  down  and  stop  them,"  said  the  mother. 
"  We  might  take  Hubert  off  the  train." 

"  And  let  her  go  on  to  Chicago,"  said  Libbie,  grimly. 

Mary  had  been  studying  the  dates  in  the  letter. 
"  They  went  through  Burlington  yesterday  evening,"  she 
said,  "the  same  train  that  carried  this  letter.  Hubert 
must  have  written  it  before,  and  only  dated  it  afterward. 
They  were  married  yesterday  afternoon,  and  they  arrived 
this  morning  in  Chicago." 

"  A  great,  big  place,  where  we  could  never  find 
ourselves,  let  alone  Hubert  and  that  minx  1 "  said  Libbie, 
disconsolately. 

"  How  will  my  poor  boy  get  along  ?  "  said  the  mother, 
beginning  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  she  has  lived  in  a  city,  and  has  been  in  Chicago, 
perhaps." 

"  I  guess  she  can  take  care  of  Hubert  all  right,  so  long 
as  she  was  so  successful  in  marrying  him." 

"  He's  given  up  the  ministry,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"  But  he's  going  to  write  books,  mother  dear.  Every 
body  says  he  has  such  genius,  and  " — 

"  He  might  both  preach  and  write  books,"  said  the 
mother.  "  Many  great  ministers  print  their  sermons.  I 
have  always  intended  Hubert  should  do  that." 

"  But,  as  he  says,  he  can  print  more  books  if  he  does 
not  preach ;  and  he  can  spread  the  truth  wider  through 
the  country.  Many  people  are  converted  by  reading 
books," 


174  Quicksand 

"  It's  not  the  true  conversion,"  interrupted  the  mother, 
sternly. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  was  beginning  to  cry  softly. 

"  Go  and  lie  down,  mother,"  said  Mary.  "I'll  make 
you  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  faltered  Mrs.  Hinckley.  They 
thought  she  was  going  to  break  down,  perhaps  into  one 
of  her  old  spells ;  but  the  strength  seemed  too  much  gone 
from  her,  and  they  helped  her  off,  crying,  to  bed. 

"Think!  If  I  should  run  off  with  Hiram,"  mused 
Mary,  "  she  would  never  get  over  it, —  never.  As  it  is,  her 
poor  heart  is  broken ;  for  she  loved  Hubert  the  most  of  us 
all."  She  was  busying  herself  with  the  tea,  but  a  sense 
of  injury  was  growing  in  her  breast, —  a  feeling  against 
Hubert  in  part,  but  chiefly  against  the  girl  who  had  capti 
vated  him.  "  And  all  the  commencement  spoiled  for  us," 
she  thought,  "  after  we  have  saved  and  contrived  all  the 
spring ! " 

Meanwhile  Libbie  was  running  down  to  the  field  where 
Sam  and  Hiram  were  working.  She  called  to  them  as 
soon  as  she  was  within  hailing  distance.  "  Hubert's  mar 
ried,  and  gone  to  Chicago."  She  expected  to  see  them 
fall  prostrate. 

"  Hurrah  for  Hubert  1 "  shouted  Hiram.  "  He  shows 
where  his  head  is  level." 

"  Hiram  Stubbs,"  said  Libbie,  breaking  into  a  rage, 
"when  I  marry,  I'll  never  ask  you  to  my  wedding;  no, 
nor  Hubert  and  his  nasty  wife,  either.  I  don't  care  if  he 
is  my  brother.  I'll  never  tell  him,  so  there  1"  And  Libbie 
ran  back  to  the  house,  nor  could  their  coaxing  get  a  word 
from  her. 


XXVIII. 

IT  was  a  tumult,  a  tornado  of  sensations,  that  burst 
across  the  consciousness  of  Hubert  upon  that  night 
and  day  following  his  marriage.  His  love  had  been 
growing  through  the  spring  till  it  had  given  him  as  much  ! 
of  pain  as  of  pleasure.  A  passion  more  Oriental  than 
Puritan  had  burned  his  dreams  like  flowing  molten  metal. 
Only  the  idolatry  for  the  angel  that  Maud  now  always 
se~emed  to  him  kept  him  in  steady  control.  They  had 
walked  in  moonlit  avenues,  much  like  other  lovers.  He 
had  held  her  hand  whenever  no  one  was  near  them,  he 
had  kissed  her  a  tender  good-night  at  parting,  and  their 
talk  had  been  plans  for  the  future. 

But  now,  once  the  conventional  sanction  of  marriage 
had  been  given,  when  he  entered  for  the  first  time  one  of 
the  sumptuous  state-room  compartments  of  the  Pullman 
of  the  Chicago  Express ;  when  he  saw  his  adored,  now 
belonging  to  him,  his  wife,  reclining  blissfully  beside  him 
in  the  dim,  yellow,  voluptuous  light,  and  constantly  and 
steadily  through  it  all  he  sensed  the  onward  rush  into  the 
great  unknown  of  the  city  and  his  future  career,  the 
regular  repeated  clang !  clang !  of  the  flying  wheels  over 
the  rails  beating  the  drum  of  their  wedding-march, —  he 
thought  in  his  abandon  of  happiness  that  the  universe 
had  suddenly  flashed  on  him  all  of  her  secrets,  that  be 
fore  this  he  had  been  only  a  poor  human  being,  but  now 
he  was  feasting  of  the  gods. 

The  pale,  cool  flush  of  the  morning  but  gave  to  him  a 
change  of  intoxicants.  The  sun  was  hardly  red  on  the 
horizon  before  they  entered  a  black  fog  of  smoke, —  the 
first  hint  of  a  great  city  ahead.  The  two  lovers  made 
ready  for  the  day,  marvelling  at  all  of  the  strangeness,  their 
views  of  the  grey,  ugly  suburbs  still  coloured  by  glowing 


176  Qjuicksand 

memories  of  the  night  that  constantly  flitted  in  luxurious 
recurrence,  mingled  with  prospect  ahead  of  the  roaring 
rush  of  the  day  and  the  visions  of  more  nights  to  follow. 

What  wonderment  the  tall  smoke-stacks  of  the  factories 
gave  them  !  and  the  deserts  of  small,  smoke-blackened 
houses !  What  mystery  in  the  maze  of  railroad  tracks 
where  the  switchmen  stood  with  their  signals !  The 
strange,  putrid,  chemical  odour  seeping  from  the  stock 
yards  and  the  river  was  not  even  cause  for  disgust.  It 
meant  regions  for  them  unexplored,  and  all  the  world  held 
only  delights.  Then  last  came  the  rush  of  the  people  in 
the  streets, —  men  and  women  going  to  their  work,  end 
less  checkers  of  squares,  and  the  corners  all  crowding 
with  passers.  What  a  shiver  of  joy  at  the  end  with  the 
porter's  wild  cry  of  "  Chicago !  Union  Passenger  Sta 
tion  1  Change  for  all  points  !  Chicago  1  " 

In  the  daze  of  smoke,  iron,  shouting,  and  hurrying, 
the  two  found  themselves  borne  along  with  the  crowd 
out  of  the  vault  where  they  had  landed.  Two  of  the 
suburban  trains  had  come  in  at  exactly  the  same  time, 
and  the  flood  of  humanity  bore  the  two  marvelling  lovers 
out  of  the  semi-underground  darkness  into  the  open  air. 
They  crossed  the  bridge,  and  entered  the  gloom  of  the 
streets,  piled  up  to  the  sky  on  each  side,  with  outlook  and 
confusion  at  the  corners.  Still  borne  along  with  the 
crowd,  they  were  battered  by  strangest  sensations:  the 
jangling  of  gongs,  the  whirr  and  the  rattle  of  cables, 
wheels  clattering  over  granite  block  pavements,  and  the 
spat,  spat,  of  horses'  hoofs ;  the  shrilling  of  whistles  on 
the  river  and  the  boom  of  signalling  steamboats,  news 
boys,  like  demons,  darting  in  and  out  through  the  turmoil, 
shouting  in  frenzy  of  competition  the  items  of  news  of  the 
morning.  It  was  all  so  vast,  so  moving  and  ponderous 
and  fatal,  all  so  much  more  than  either  had  dreamed, 


Qjjicksand  177 

that  they  walked  along  hand  in  hand,  and  marvelled,  for 
getting  that  they  were  college-bred  and  geniuses,  and  that 
curious  people  might  be  watching. 

It  was  Maud  who  became  practical  first,  and  began 
to  talk  reason  to  Hubert.  Maud  had  never  been  in 
Chicago ;  but  she  had  heard  her  father  talk  of  it  often, 
and  knew  all  about  his  favourite  hotel.  It  was  strangely 
easy  to  find.  A  policeman  showed  them  precisely  where 
it  stood ;  and,  as  they  were  everywhere  recognised  as  the 
young  bride  and  bridegroom  from  the  country,  it  was  the 
simplest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  attention. 

"  A  room  ?  Certainly,"  said  the  business-like  clerk. 
"  Have  you  had  your  trunks  sent  up  ?  No  ?  Just  give 
me  your  checks :  we  will  have  them  in  thirty  minutes." 

Hubert  was  writing  in  the  register  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hinckley,  Mt.  Pleasant " ;  while  the  clerk  was  speaking 
politely  to  Maud.  A  black  porter  in  uniform  had  their 
luggage.  They  were  ushered  into  a  large  box,  which  im 
mediately  began  carrying  them  upward.  Before  they 
could  speak,  the  door  of  the  iron  box  clicked.  "  This 
way,"  said  the  uniformed  porter ;  and  they  walked  down 
a  plush-carpeted  aisle, —  it  was  almost  like  the  church  in 
Fort  Madison, —  and  then  turned  into  a  square,  modern 
room  that  Hubert  would  have  thought  very  elegant,  had 
he  not  heard  the  artistic  talk  of  the  Saunders. 

The  porter  had  explained  to  them  again  that  their 
trunks  would  be  up  in  half  an  hour,  and  left  them  with  a 
bow  and  a  flourish.  Then  they  began  a  survey  of  the 
room,  each  object  offering  interest  and  delight.  Here 
was  the  window.  Look  down  on  the  long,  grey  street,  on 
to  the  roofs  of  the  street-cars.  Hubert  had  seen  street 
cars  in  Burlington,  but  they  were  smaller  ones ;  and  he  had 
never  looked  down  on  the  tops,  the  oblong,  yellow-painted 
covers  that  looked  like  the  shells  of  huge  turtles.  Then 


i;8  Quicksand 

they  found  the  hotel  rules  framed  in  gilt  on  the  door,  and 
covered  up  with  a  glass,  like  a  picture.  All  of  these 
rules  they  read  carefully,  so  that  they  might  not  have  the 
embarrassment  of  breaking  any.  The  rules  were  chiefly 
about  not  paying,  and  said  that  travellers  without  bag 
gage  should  be  required  to  pay  in  advance.  It  was  with 
a  startled  feeling  of  relief  that  Hubert  thought  of  their 
trunks,  and  felt  thankful  that  he  had  not  blundered  there. 
Later  on  the  rules  gave  notice  about  meals  and  also  the 
calls  of  the  bell,  which,  Maud  said,  was  the  button  on  the 
wall,  close  by  the  head  of  the  bed. 

It  was  while  they  were  looking  into  the  bureau  drawers 
to  see  if  there  was  anything  in  them  —  this  necessarily 
drew  their  heads  close  together  —  that  Maud  found  some 
coal-dust  in  Hubert's  ear,  and  then  the  hilarity  began  of 
getting  ready  for  breakfast.  Outside  in  the  plush  hall 
again,  they  were  wondering  what  they  should  do  with  the 
key.  The  star  tag  attached  was  almost  too  big  for 
Hubert  to  carry  in  his  pocket ;  and  they  were  also  timid 
about  whether  they  should  go  down  in  the  box-like  eleva 
tor  or  take  the  more  safe  plush-covered  stairs,  when  the 
porter  came  up  with  their  trunks.  He  was  used  to  the 
inexperience  of  the  fresh  bridal  couple  from  the  country, 
and  explained  that  they  should  leave  the  key  with  the 
clerk  when  they  went  out ;  and  he  rang  the  bell  for  the 
elevator.  Maud  had  thought  this  was  the  way  they  did 
in  Des  Moines.  They  had  virtually  decided  on  this 
method  of  procedure,  but  the  porter  made  everything 
sure ;  and  they  walked  into  the  big  dining-room  composedly, 
and  began  a  pretended  intelligent  search  of  the  enormous 
pink  bills  of  fare  that  contained  as  much  disconnected 
reading  material  as  a  copy  of  their  weekly  college  paper. 
The  negro  waiter,  too,  offered  them  assistance ;  for  even  a 
restaurant  waiter  loves  a  lover,  and  here  were  two  of 


Qjiicksand  179 

them,  unsullied.  He  kindly  showed  them  that  they  did 
not  need  to  peruse  the  wine  list  nor  all  of  the  extras  with 
remarkable  French  names  in  Italics  that  are  not  to  be 
found  in  the  French  grammar  or  reader.  There  were 
the  meats  and  the  eggs,  and  vegetables  would  be  served 
with  each  order  ;  and  would  the  lady  like  coffee  or  cocoa  ? 
And,  in  short,  everything  was  as  smooth  as  new  love. 
They  had  only  to  pay  at  a  little  pavilion,  and  were  ele 
vated  back  to  their  room. 

They  sat  in  the  window  for  a  time,  and  talked  of  their 
darling  plans.  This  was  Friday  morning,  to  begin  on. 
Maud  had  been  economising  as  well  as  Hubert,  and  there 
was  a  neat  little  partnership  capital. 

"  We  will  stay  here  a  week,"  they  said.  "  The  room 
comes  cheaper  by  the  week.  To-day  we  will  purchase  a 
guide-book,  and  make  ourselves  familiar  with  the  map 
of  the  city.  In  the  afternoon  we  will  go  out  to  look  at 
the  city,  perhaps  take  a  street-car,  so  as  to  see  more. 
To-morrow  we  will  settle  on  a  location,  and  then  begin  to 
look  for  furnished  rooms  where  we  can  do  light  cooking. 
Then  Sunday  we  will  go  to  some  nice  place, —  not  to 
church,  however, —  and  then  Monday  we  will  begin  to 
look  for  rooms.  We  can  surely  find  them  by  Friday,  and 
get  moved  in  during  the  week." 

"  Then  you  can  begin  on  a  novel  or  a  volume  of 
poems,"  said  Maud. 

Hubert  wondered  vaguely  what  the  novel  would  be 
about.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  him  now,  as  the  time  was 
approaching  for  writing  it. 

He  suggested  that  he  go  out  and  purchase  the  guide 
book  while  she  was  unpacking  her  trunk.  Then,  when  he 
had  unlocked  the  trunk  for  her,  he  became  so  interested 
in  the  unpacking  and  in  arranging  things  in  the  bureau 
that  both  of  them  unpacked  both  the  trunks,  and  went  out 
for  the  guide-book  together. 


XXIX. 

IT  was  eleven  o'clock  before  these  two  children  of 
Venus  had  lifted  their  heads  from  the  guide-book 
and  begun  to  make  ready  for  the  street.  They 
would  look  at  the  city  hall  first,  since  that  was  near  at 
hand ;  and  then  they  would  wander  about  the  streets  until 
lunch  time,  and  then  make  off  for  Lincoln  Park,  they 
thought,  as  that  seemed  to  hold  most  attractions.  Had 
they  been  less  young  or  less  in  love  or  more  experienced  in 
cities,  they  might  have  considered  the  intense  heat,  for 
people  were  sweltering  around  them ;  but,  as  it  was,  Hubert 
thought  Maud  only  looked  the  prettier  for  the  heat,  and 
she  thought  the  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  that  bedewed 
his  delicate  forehead  made  him  manlier  and  handsomer 
than  ever.  Hubert  was  certainly  a  comely  bridgroom, 
and  if  he  only  had  a  heavier  mustache ;  but  that  was  a 
matter  time  would  mend.  They  looked  at  the  city  hall, 
and  marvelled  at  its  cost  as  given  in  the  guide-book,  and 
were  just  a  little  disappointed  that  it  did  not  have  a  dome, 
like  all  the  public  buildings  they  had  known.  Maud 
spoke  of  the  capitol  at  Des  Moines ;  and  they  began  to  feel 
so  superior  in  their  knowledge  that  they  went  into  a  res 
taurant  for  lunch,  and  spent  as  much  time  as  they  wanted 
over  the  bill  of  fare,  as  if  they  knew  how  to  find  things, 
but  could  not  find  precisely  what  they  wanted.  Hubert 
had  a  reserve  guard  now.  When  he  could  not  settle  on 
anything,  there  being  so  very  much  to  choose  from,  he 
would  say  with  an  air  of  experience,  "  Just  bring  me  ham 
and  eggs."  He  had  seen  a  man  across  from  him  do  that, 
and  it  never  cost  very  much ;  and  they  always  seemed  to 
have  this,  and  he  could  learn  of  other  dishes  in  time. 

Still  strong  in  their  confidence  of  getting  along  in  the 
city,  they  went  out,  and  tried  to  stop  a  street-car  that  had 


Qjiicksand  iSi 

the  sign  for  Lincoln  Park.  Even  Maud  was  puzzled  here ; 
for  the  grip-man  seemed  to  pay  no  attention  to  their  wav 
ing,  but  waited  for  some  mystic  sign  that  the  provincials 
had  not  yet  learned. 

"  This  is  not  the  way  they  do  in  Des  Moines,"  com 
plained  Maud.  "  They  stop  when  I  hold  up  my  hand." 

"  Go  to  the  other  corner,  miss  " ;  said  a  policeman  ;  and 
Hubert  felt  a  blush  of  humiliation  as  they  walked  to  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  They  were  soon  out  of  sight  of 
the  scene  of  their  disgrace,  however.  That  was  the  best 
thing  they  found  about  Chicago.  If  they  did  make  a 
blunder  about  something,  no  one  who  saw  them  make  it 
would  ever  see  them  again.  They  glided  into  the  cool 
shade  of  the  tunnel  just  then ;  and,  while  they  were  en 
joying  the  strangeness  and  the  underground  smell,  they 
came  out  into  the  sunlight.  The  car  stopped  when  they 
got  to  the  park ;  and  together  they  walked  the  shaded 
paths,  and  looked  at  the  animals  in  the  zoological  gardens. 
It  was  getting  tiresome  walking  —  they  had  never  sup 
posed  the  park  was  so  big  —  when  suddenly  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  lake.  They  had  not  seen  it  before,  had 
hardly  realised  its  nearness  to  Chicago.  How  beautiful 
and  breezy  and  blue  this  wondrous  expanse  of  water  1 
Neither  of  them  had  ever  seen  anything  larger  than  the 
Mississippi ;  and  here  was  clear  level  before  them.  They 
could  not  see  out  across  it.  They  sat  down  in  the  shade 
of  a  tree,  so  that  their  hands  could  touch.  Their  ex 
periences  were  sufficient  for  one  day :  they  would  not  go 
any  farther. 

The  next  day  they  went  to  the  South  Side,  and  decided 
that  that  was  where  they  should  live.  The  University  made 
it  seem  like  home  to  them,  and  there  was  the  lake  as  well. 
In  the  afternoon  they  went  to  the  Art  Institute;  and 
Hubert  went  through  another  passion  of  feeling  when  he 


182  Qjjicksand 

looked  on  the  luminous  squares  of  the  canvases,  and 
realised  all  of  his  art  dreams  in  the  white  peopled  gal 
leries  of  sculpture.  It  was  here,  too,  that  he  received  the 
first  vague  hint  that  his  new  wife  might  not  contain  all 
perfections.  For  Maud  wearied  of  pictures  after  a  look, 
and  wanted  to  move  on  and  see  them  all ;  while  he  would 
stand  quite  still,  dreaming.  Still,  he  loved  Maud  more 
than  the  pictures.  Besides,  they  could  come  here  again ; 
and  she  would  grow  into  her  love  for  them  later.  On 
Sunday  he  begged  her  to  go  back,  that  being  also  a  free 
day;  and  she  was  quite  willing  to  humour  him,  being 
fond  that  his  genius  should  be  touched  by  these  pictures 
where  her  common  feelings  were  not.  She  enjoyed  look 
ing  at  the  crowd,  anyway ;  and  she  also  enjoyed  having  the 
crowd  look  at  her.  That  Hubert  came  to  be  proud  of  as 
well.  So  both  were  very  well  satisfied. 

On  Monday  they  set  out  to  find  rooms.  They  had 
learned  they  should  ask  for  light  housekeeping;  and, 
choosing  the  locality  they  wanted,  in  reach  of  the  lake 
and  the  University,  they  walked  up  and  down  the  streets, 
with  eyes  set  on  the  cards  in  the  windows. 

"  They  are  all  flats,"  said  Maud,  disgustedly,  after  they 
had  done  several  miles. 

"  What  are  flats,  anyway  ? "  asked  Hubert,  finding  that 
he  could  not  learn  by  examining  the  windows. 

"  Oh,  they  are  rooms,  only  all  on  a  flat,"  answered 
Maud. 

V"  Wouldn't  a  little  one  do  for  us  ? "  suggested  Hubert. 

"  Why,  they're  not  furnished,  dear, —  except  some  of 
them  that  are  furnished,"  she  corrected. 

They  laughed  at  this,  and  wished  there  were  some 
place  to  sit  down.  They  would  find  a  restaurant,  and 
go  out  toward  Jackson  Park. 

In  the  afternoon  they  made  so  bold  as  to  ask  a  police 
man  they  encountered. 


Qjiicksand  183 

"  You'll  have  to  go  in  a  little  cheaper  part  of  town," 
he  said  kindly,  and  told  them  the  names' of  some  streets. 

They  searched  all  the  afternoon,  till  Maud  was  quite 
beat  with  walking.  "  We  will  come  again  in  the  morn 
ing,"  they  said,  disappointed.  "  You  know  we  expected 
to  look  till  Friday,  and  this  is  only  Monday  now." 

The  next  day  they  had  better  success,  being  more  ex 
perienced  in  searching.  On  a  street  not  very  far  from 
the  lake,  and  not  such  an  enormous  distance  from  the 
University,  they  found  a  line  of  tall  wooden  houses  that 
seemed  all  given  up  to  light  housekeeping.  They  looked 
at  various  places,  Maud  not  seeming  to  mind  at  all  the 
telling  of  the  landlady  that  the  place  would  not  do,  where 
Hubert  would  not  have  dared  to  refuse  the  first,  shown 
him,  and  finally  decided  on  one  that  they  said  would  do 
very  well.  It  was  a  large  room,  with  an  alcove  for  the 
bed,  and  a  tiny  closet  fitted  up  for  cooking  with  a  little 
gasoline  stove  and  several  patches  of  oilcloth.  The  land 
lady  was  Irish  and  good-natured.  Maud  whispered  that 
Hubert  might  make  her  into  a  character  for  the  novel. 
The  terms  were  reasonable  enough,  and  the  landlady 
showed  them  her  dishes  and  let  them  pick  out  the  ones 
they  thought  prettiest.  It  seemed  so  jolly  and  cosey  that 
they  decided  to  move  next  day  and  not  take  the  advantage 
of  weekly  rates  at  the  hotel,  but  get  away  from  the  big, 
formal  place  at  once. 

"  It  is  almost  like  starting  into  college,"  said  Hubert, 
when  they  were  moving ;  and  he  thought  it  was  a  great 
deal  better  when  a  woman's  hands  began  to  touch  up  the 
room,  making  it  homelike  and  pretty. 

"  To-morrow  we  will  go  down  town  and  buy  some 
cheap  stuff  for  curtains,"  said  Maud ;  and  she  consulted 
with  the  landlady  about  it,  and  learned  the  best  place 
to  go. 


184  Qjiicksand 

What  fun  they  had  furnishing  their  play-house  and 
cooking  and  eating  their  first  meals  together  1  Hubert 
was  proving  himself  an  excellent  husband,  cooking  and 
sewing  as  well  as  Maud  could,  and  skilful  in  all  things 
about  the  house.  They  tacked  and  hammered  and 
moved,  and  stopped  to  kiss  each  other  in  the  midst  of  it. 
The  Irish  woman  caught  them  kissing  one  day,  but 
kindly  retreated  without  saying  anything.  They  made 
some  book-shelves  for  their  books  and  arranged  a  table 
for  writing.  Everything  was  done  by  the  end  of  the 
week  and  the  little  rooms  were  the  prettiest  place  to 
them  in  Chicago.  They  walked  by  the  dreary-looking 
flats,  and  wondered  how  mortals  could  inhabit  them 
when  their  place  offered  the  delights  of  rooms  for  light 
housekeeping. 

On  Sunday  they  went  to  church,  just  to  get  the  feel 
ing  of  old  residents.  Besides,  they  liked  the  pipe  organ 
and  the  choir.  Afterward  they  had  a  royal  Sunday  din 
ner,  and  went  out  to  walk  in  the  park. 

"  To-morrow  you  can  begin  on  your  novel,"  said  Maud ; 
"  and  I  will  keep  as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  and  never  speak  to 
you  once." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hubert,  so  dolefully  that  they  both  burst 
into  irresistible  laughter.  Maud  was  laughing  the 
longest.  "  I  will  speak  to  you  whenever  you  like,"  she 
whispered. 

But  Hubert  was  looking  far  away,  over  the  blue  level 
of  the  lake. 


XXX. 

THE  main  thing  in  writing  a  novel  is  to  have  some 
thing  worth  while  to  write.  Now  no  one  knew 
this  better  than  Hubert  himself.  Mr.  Saunders 
had  insisted  on  it  often,  and  his  own  sense  of  power  had 
always  recognised  it.  Notwithstanding  all  that,  he  had 
believed  that  his  motive  would  come,  once  he  could  give 
it  occasion.  He  had  much  in  his  life  for  material, —  his 
childhood,  his  intense  love  for  nature,  his  religion  and 
the  rationality  that  had  rescued  him  from  it,  last  of  all 
and  most  important,  too,  his  love  for  Maud,  and  their 
marriage,  and  their  present  comradeship  together. 

But,  as  he  sat  down  in  the  muslin-curtained  little  room 
at  the  neat  table  Maud  had  made  ready,  his  motives 
would  not  form  into  a  plot.  He  would  dream  idly,  and 
not  creatively.  How  very  heart-sickening  it  was  1  He 
began  to  go  over  his  list.  Surely,  one  would  give  impulse. 

His  childhood  first, —  that  set  him  thinking  of  his 
mother,  his  dear  mother  to  whom  he  had  given  such 
hopes,  who  had  denied  herself  and  wearied  herself  for 
him.  He  could  see  her  now  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  her 
strained  eyes  fixed  on  the  road  in  the  vague  hope  to  see 
him  returning.  Love  and  care  had  left  their  marks  on 
that  face.  It  had  changed,  perhaps,  since  he  last  saw  her. 
Had  ever  son,  he  asked  himself, —  had  ever  son  such  a 
mother  as  he  ?  There  she  was,  sitting  and  waiting,  erect 
and  proud  as  he  knew  her,  with  the  nervous  clutching  mo 
tion  of  her  hands,  as  if  she  would  hold  him  up  to  her. 

"  Maud,  has  the  postman  come  yet  ? "  he  would  ask, 
forgetting  about  his  novel  and  how  they  had  agreed  not 
to  talk. 

"  No,  dear,  he  did  not  stop :  he  has  gone  by." 

When  would  his  mother  write  to  him  again  ?     He  had 


186  Qjiicksand 

received  one  letter,  just  after  they  had  moved  from  the 
hotel.  The  letter  was  all  love  and  forgiveness  and 
resignation,  though  he  felt  that  the  resignation  had  come 
hardest.  It  was  a  short  letter,  however,  and  broken  in 
sentences,  as  if  the  one  who  wrote  it  had  been  sobbing. 
He  had  replied  to  this  with  long  explanations  and  a 
description  of  their  new  home  in  Chicago.  Maud  had 
put  in  a  pretty  note  as  well,  asking  her  new  mother's  for 
giveness.  To  that  no  answer  had  come :  he  had  waited 
now  for  a  week.  If  Mary  would  write,  or  Libbie  — 
He  would  wait  a  day  or  two  longer,  and  then  he  would 
write  them  again. 

"  Are  you  beginning,  Hubert  ?  "  asked  Maud,  "  because 
it  is  almost  time  now  for  dinner." 

"  I  wish  I'd  taken  you  home  with  me,  dear,  before  we 
came  to  Chicago.  I  want  you  to  know  my  old  home,  and 
love  my  dear  mother  and  sisters." 

"  If  we  are  very  economical,  we  can  go  down  for 
Christmas,"  said  Maud,  petting  him.  "  Now  shall  I 
clear  off  the  table  and  set  the  plates  out  for  dinner  ? " 

His  love  for  nature,  again, —  how  could  that  give  him 
force  for  a  purpose  ?  He  had  written  some  beautiful 
things  :  he  knew  when  he  created  beauty, —  a  critic  was  not 
needed  to  tell  him.  He  had  written  once  since  he  came : 
it  was  while  looking  out  over  the  lake.  He  had  gone  for 
a  walk  to  work  out  his  plot.  Maud  had  not  gone  with 
him  that  morning.  He  had  sat  down  on  the  shore,  and 
then  the  poet  charm  had  come  over  him.  The  intense 
blue  of  the  water  searched  his  soul ;  like  inspiration  the 
words  had  flowed  on  his  paper.  There  was  the  joy  of 
creation.  There  was  the  pride  that  power  gives.  He 
had  taken  it  home  to  Maud,  and  it  made  them  happy  for 
days.  But  it  was  hardly  a  work  that  could  bring  fame. 
Still,  they  sent  it  off  to  a  magazine,  and  had  great  hopes 


Quicksand  187 

in  foreseeing  the  sensation  when  the  blue  dream  should 
come  out  in  print.  The  money,  too,  would  be  very 
welcome. 

There  was  still  another  source  of  inspiration  for  him 
now,  and  that  was  the  pictures  in  the  gallery.  These 
spoke  to  him  as  the  real  fields  had  done,  or  his  own  grand, 
slow-moving  Mississippi.  Perhaps  they  would  give  him 
some  story.  He  studied  the  old  Rembrandts  especially, 
and  a  young  man  that  Franz  Hals  had  imagined.  Stories 
did  come ;  but  they  needed  a  strange  foreign  setting, 
something  that  he  knew  only  from  books.  He  was  wise 
enough  in  his  youth  to  know  that  he  must  write  from  him 
self,  not  from  reading,  and  turned  to  the  landscapes  again. 
In  the  end,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  while  nature 
could  lift  him  for  a  time,  it  could  not  sustain  him  for  any 
thing  of  great  length  or  permanence.  It  was  people, 
people  he  must  write;  and  he  turned  to  his  repertory 
again. 

Religion !  yes,  there  was  material.  That  was  an 
experience  he  had  lived  through  and  conquered.  He 
could  calmly  review  it  from  the  past :  it  was  ripe  seed, 
ready  in  his  hand.  He  plotted  a  story  with  the  hero  a 
young  preacher  he  had  seen  at  a  camp-meeting,  a  Swed 
ish  country  fellow  of  great  magnetism  as  a  speaker,  and 
an  experience  something  like  Christian's  in  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress  "  of  his  childhood.  He  made  this  man  a  success 
ful  preacher,  and  then  began  torturing  him  with  doubts. 
There  was  love  in  this  tale  as  well :  a  girl  who  was 
strikingly  like  Maud,  though  every  feature  was  changed 
and  her  colour  swarthy  brunette.  The  girl  was  religious, 
too;  but  she  was  changed  by  the  preacher's  new  argu 
ments,  and  they  were  married  and  happy  ever  after. 
This  seemed  to  promise  real  material ;  but  how  could  he 
ever  put  it  into  print  and  place  it  before  his  mother, —  his 


i88  Qjiicksand 

mother,  whom  he  had  deceived  in  these  matters,  whose 
only  comfort  left  in  her  son  was  the  hope  that  he  was 
writing  books  of  sermons  or  of  Sunday-school  stories, 
those  that  would  bring  sinners  to  Christ,  praying  at  the 
bench  for  salvation  ?  Still,  he  wrote  on  blindly  for  a 
time,  it  seemed  to  be  his  only  hope.  Then  he  stopped 
suddenly,  and  put  the  half-finished  manuscript  away.  It 
seemed  like  smothering  a  baby,  but  he  firmly  put  it  from 
sight.  For  three  days  and  nights  he  had  had  the  vision 
of  his  mother  sitting  before  him,  the  despair  settled  hope 
less  in  her  eyes. 

He  turned  to  his  love  for  his  wife.  That  could  do 
nobody  harm,  and  the  world  was  always  eager  for  love. 
But  here  was  the  greatest  difficulty  of  all :  he  could  not 
write  love,  because  he  was  all  the  time  living  it.  He  had 
no  sense  of  throwing  it  into  perspective,  he  could  not  get 
the  artist's  point  of  view.  Love-songs  and  sonnets  he 
could  write.  These  he  had  going  from  magazine  to  mag 
azine,  but  without  anywhere  finding  acceptance,  because 
they  were  too  genuine,  doubtless.  But  anything  like 
the  dialogue  of  a  novel,  or  any  analytical  writings, —  these 
he  could  not  do  at  all.  Even  Maud  acknowledged  his 
failure. 

"  What's  the  difference,  anyway  ? "  she  comforted. 
"  You  can  make  love,  Hubert,  if  you  can't  write  it ;  and  I 
think  that's  a  great  deal  nicer." 

The  winter  came  on  to  find  him  still  struggling.  They 
did  not  go  home  on  Christmas :  they  could  not  afford  the 
expense.  Living  was  dear  in  Chicago.  Still  his  mother's 
letters  were  calling  him,  but  he  could  not  say  they  were 
poor.  A  married  man  who  is  living  off  the  income  of 
his  wife  cannot  receive  help  from  his  family.  One  pride 
shuts  out  the  other.  How  this  dependence  galled  him, 
when  he  thought  of  it,  as  in  fact  he  was  continually  doing  1 


Qjuicksand  189 

He  tried  to  get  work,  but  there  seemed  no  place.  They 
did  not  know  a  soul  in  the  city.  He  made  application 
for  teaching  in  the  night  schools ;  but  the  places  were 
political  favours,  and  he  had  no  influential  friends. 
Toward  spring  he  succeeded  in  getting  acquainted  with 
a  teacher  in  the  public  schools,  and  secured  a  little  work 
from  him,  looking  over  the  examination  papers  of  the  pupils 
and  grading  them  accurately.  This  gave  him  something 
to  hold  him  still  when  his  threadbare  nervous  system  was 
rebellious. 

Worst  of  all,  this  condition  of  health  was  making  him 
irritable  in  his  conduct  toward  his  wife  ;  and  she,  not 
being  able  to  understand  it,  was  wearing  nervously  thread 
bare,  too.  Poor  Maud  !  she,  too,  had  her  troubles.  It 
was  another  case  of  lack  of  occupation.  She  was  growing 
lonesome  and  restless ;  for  the  light  housekeeping  had 
proved  to  be  so  very  light  that  it  scarcely  took  any  time 
at  all.  Then  she  knew  nobody.  There  are  no  neighbours 
in  the  city.  The  landlady  was  not  sufficient.  How  dull 
the  long  mornings  were,  keeping  still  for  Hubert  to  write  ! 
If  he  had  been  writing,  she  would  not  so  much  have 
minded ;  but  he  just  sat  stupidly  dreaming  or  nervously 
inviting  her  to  talk  with  him.  When  she  did  talk,  he 
scolded.  When  he  scolded,  she  cried. 

The  afternoons  they  had  planned  for  amusements ;  but 
amusements  in  the  city  mean  money,  and  money  they  did 
not  have  to  waste.  This,  again,  was  hard  for  the  wife. 
Her  income  had  been  plenty  for  one.  She  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  having  anything  she  chose.  She  had  been  proud 
at  first  to  deny  herself ;  but  self-denial  grows  monotonous 
when  practised  without  any  return  through  all  the  week 
days  and  Sundays.  They  used  to  walk  in  the  park ;  but 
cold  weather  made  walking  uncomfortable,  and  they  were 
tired  of  the  accurate  driveways  and  landscape  effects,  and 


Quicksand 

the  long  streets  of  houses  were  no  better.  Then  Hubert 
received  the  great  piles  of  examination  papers  to  correct, 
and  that  kept  him  in  afternoons  and  evenings.  Drudge, 
drudge,  drudge  1  Maud  got  so  she  hated  the  seasons  of 
examination  papers  more  than  she  hated  the  novels. 
Hubert  had  been  accustomed  to  reading  to  her,  or  she 
would  read  to  him.  They  were  jolly  with  a  lounge  they 
had  arranged.  He  would  lie  with  his  head  in  her  lap ; 
but  now  that  tame  amusement  was  over.  It  was,  per 
haps,  as  well,  however;  for  he  liked  poetry  and  Shak- 
spere,  while  she  liked  only  the  novels.  "  Trashy  novels  " 
Hubert  had  called  them.  "  At  all  events,  they  are  more 
than  you  can  write,"  Maud  replied;  and  then  she  was 
sorry,  and  they  tried  to  make  it  up. 

Nothing  being  published  the  next  summer,  not  even 
a  novel  wholly  written,  they  were  neither  of  them  sorry 
for  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hinckley,  announcing  that  she 
would  visit  them  in  September. 


fir 

• 


XXXI. 

MINISTER  SIMMONS  was  a  widower.  His  wife 
had  left  him  two  children.  There  was  consider 
able  gossip  in  the  neighbourhood  as  to  whom  he 
should  take  up  with  next ;  for  everybody  considered  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  take  another  wife,  and  make  a  home  for 
himself.  It  was  also  common  in  gossip  that  he  was  look 
ing  again  toward  the  Hinckleys.  This  revived  the  dis 
cussion  of  how  it  was  that  Libbie  Hinckley  did  not  get 
him  before,  when  everybody  knew  she  was  after  him. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Simmons  would  choose  Mary  this  time.  She 
would  make  the  better  minister's  wife.  Some  people 
thought  he  ought  to  marry  Letty  Green,  the  sister  of  his 
deceased  wife.  She  would  have  more  heart  for  the  chil 
dren.  But  others  held  the  old  prejudice  that  a  deceased 
wife's  sister  is  not  eligible,  and  these  favoured  Mary 
Hinckley  or  else  spoke  of  the  Foster  girls.  At  all  events, 
his  choice  was  the  chief  interest  of  the  neighbourhood, 
especially  the  female  part  of  it. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  and  Libbie  took  secret  part  in  this 
activity. 

"  It  would  be  such  a  good  match  for  Mary,"  suggested 
Libbie ;  and  this  time  her  mother  was  considerate. 

"  You  are  older  than  Mary,  Libbie.  You  ought  to  marry 
first." 

i"  I  have  yet  to  see  the  man  that  I  will  have,"  replied 
bbie ;  "  and  I  hate  and  despise  other  people's  children." 
"  Perhaps  the  Greens  will  adopt  them.  I  should  never 
give  up  my  daughter's  children,  and  let  a  strange  mother 
have  them." 

"Trust  the  Greens  for  that,  unless  they  can  throw 
Letty  in  with  the  children,  and  adopt  the  whole  family 
together.  Did  you  see  her  sidling  up  to  him  in  church ; 


Qjiicksand 

and  his  wife  dead  only  seven  months,  and  her  sister  into 
the  bargain !  " 

"  You  know  you  invited  him  here,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Hinckley,  mildly. 

"  That's  different.  I'm  not  fishing  for  myself,  and 
Minister  Simmons  knows  it.  He  knows,  and  the  whole 
neighbourhood  knows,  that  I  wouldn't  take  him  as  a 
gift." 

"  I  wish  you  could  look  at  it  in  another  light,  Libbie," 
still  insisted  her  mother. 

"  Mother,  don't  you  know  that,  if  I  married,  then  Mary 
would  marry  Hiram  Stubbs  ?  If  I  can,  she  can,  you  see." 

"  I  don't  think  she  wants  Hiram  now.  I  think  she 
realises  her  mistake.  Don't  you  notice  they  are  never 
together  ?  " 

"  You  ask  her,"  was  Libbie 's  terse  reply. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  did  ask  her  soon  :  the  two  were  walking 
in  the  orchard,  looking  to  see  if  the  apples  had  set. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  abruptly,  "  if  I  had  let 
you  that  time,  would  you  have  married  Hiram  Stubbs  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  would  marry  him  now  if  you'd  let  me," 
replied  Mary,  blushing  deep  red,  and  her  soft  voice  trem 
bling  with  earnestness. 

"  But,  dear,  don't  you  think, —  now  if  Hubert  or  the 
people  of  Fort  Madison  came  to  see  you,  wouldn't  you  be 
ashamed  to  introduce  Hiram  to  them  as  your  husband  ? 
Such  an  uneducated  man  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shouldn't,  mother,"  answered  Mary.  "  I  am 
not  well  educated  myself,  and  I  do  not  care  for  society." 

"  But  it  would  be  nice  now  to  be  a  minister's  wife  in 
Fort  Madison,  the  head  of  the  church  society,  for  in 
stance  ? " 

"  I  am  not  fit  for  it,  mother.  There  are  college  women 
in  Fort  Madison,  and  I  should  feel  out  of  my  station." 


Qjaicksand  193 

"  Mr.  Simmons  himself  is  not  a  college  man,  like  Hu 
bert.  He  just  went  to  the  theological  seminary." 

"  I  should  rather  be  a  farmer's  wife,  mother,  and  live 
here  close  by  you." 

"  Hiram  is  such  a  rough  fellow.  He  is  hardly  respected 
in  the  neighbourhood." 

"  Mother,  he  is  thought  more  of  in  the  neighbourhood 
than  any  man  I  know.  He  is  always  called  in  when  there 
is  sickness  or  trouble,  and  no  one  needs  to  ask  Hiram 
twice." 

"  I  know  ;  but  that  is  in  such  a  common  way.  I  recog 
nise  Hiram's  good  qualities,  but  he  does  not  go  into  so 
ciety." 

"  Mother,  neither  do  I." 

"  But  you  should.  It's  your  place,  Mary.  We  are  one 
of  the  oldest  families  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  of  good 
New  England  stock.  My  Grandfather  Cummings  was  re 
spected  throughout  his  county,  one  of  the  best  counties  in 
New  Hampshire." 

"  I  thought  it  was  Hiram's  religion  that  you  objected 
to,"  said  Mary. 

"  It's  that,  too ;  but  I  want  a  position  for  you,  Mary. 
I  care  too  much  for  you  to  see  you  marry  a  farmer,  a 
man  who  has  been  a  common  sailor." 

"  Mother,  I  have  heard  you  say  that  our  first  ancestor 
in  America  was  a  sailor.  The  very  first  Cummings,  you 
said." 

"Why,  yes;  but  society  has  grown  up  since  then. 
Besides,  sailors  were  different  in  those  days ;  and  that  was 
generations  ago.  That's  what  makes  us  an  old  family." 

"  I  don't  see  how  old  families  are  better  than  new 
ones,"  faltered  Mary. 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  Mr.  Simmons  may  come  here 
occasionally ;  and  I  want  you  to  be  kind  to  him,  Mary,  for 
my  sake." 


194  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  I  wish  Libbie  would  marry  Mr.  Simmons,"  said  Mary, 
impetuously. 

"  I  wish  she  would,"  sighed  Mrs.  Hinckley,  sorrowfully. 
"  Libbie  ought  to  be  married  and  have  a  home  of  her 
own." 

"  Yes,  she's  getting  so  cross  we  can't  stand  her  some 
times." 

"  But  she  objects,  you  know,  to  marrying  a  widower 
with  children.  They  say  Mr.  Simmons  is  a  very  kind 
father." 

The  conversation  drifted  here  to  the  neighbourhood  talk 
and  the  Foster  girls  and  Letty  Green  and  her  prospects. 
Mary  did  not  speak  again  of  Hiram,  but  a  faint  hope  was 
awakened  within  her. 

It  began  to  sleep  again,  however,  when  that  week  Mr. 
Simmorts  called  one  afternoon,  and  showed  a  decided 
preference  to  talk  with  her,  being  aided  and  encouraged 
by  Libbie.  She  could  see,  too,  that  her  mother  was 
hopeful,  thinking  that  she  might  come  to  change  her 
mind.  Mr.  Simmons's  visits  continued,  and  grew  more 
frequent.  They  were  often  left  alone  together.  Mary  be 
came  more  and  more  nervous.  Would  they  force  her 
into  marrying  him  yet  ?  She  would  plan  to  slip  away  and 
see  Hiram.  He  would  give  her  strength  to  resist.  One 
day  she  told  Libbie  she  was  going  to  the  Johnsons'  to 
borrow  their  largest  brass  kettle.  Libbie  thought  Hiram 
was  with  Sam  in  the  potato  field ;  but  they  had  found  it 
too  wet  to  hoe,  and  Hiram  was  choring  about  the  cabin. 
She  started  out  toward  the  Johnsons',  and  then  slipped 
down  behind  the  hedge  and  came  in  the  back  way  through 
the  grove. 

Hiram  was  working  at  the  wood  pile,  mending  the 
wooden  horse  for  the  draw-shave. 

"  Hello,  Mate  1 "  he  called  out,  as  he  saw  her.  "  So 
you're  sneaking  away  from  the  folks  ?  " 


Qjuicksand  195 

"  They  are  worrying  me  to  death,  Hiram,"  she  said ; 
and  he  drew  her  down  by  his  side,  forgetting  to  let  go  of 
her  hand,  his  eyes  resting  fondly  upon  her. 

"  I  believe  you  and  I  get  as  much  solid  comfort  out  of 
life  as  most  of  the  married  folks,"  he  said  gently :  "  only 
you  ought  to  come  oftener,  Mary." 

"  I  think  of  you  all  the  time,  Hiram ;  but  I  dare  not 
come  because  of  Libbie." 

"  And  I  think  of  you,  too,  all  the  time,  or  near  all  the 
time,"  he  said,  correcting  himself  for  honesty's  sake. 

"I'll  always  love  you,  Hiram."  And  here  she  began 
sobbing  and  shaking. 

"  There,  there,  child,  of  course.  That's  because  I'll 
always  love  you  back."  He  rested  her  head  on  his 
knees.  She  had  slipped  down  to  be  at  his  feet ;  and  he 
took  out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes,  calling  her 
all  possible  endearing  names,  his  rich  voice  tender  and 
vibrating. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  you  lately  ?  "  he  said, 
after  she  was  growing  more  quiet.  "  Sit  up,  and  give  me 
a  —  ".  But  Mary  would  not  sit  up.  He  was  obliged  to 
stoop  over,  and  pull  back  the  tangled  brown  hair  to  get  a 
wee  spot  at  her  temple.  Then  they  were  both  laughing 
at  the  tussle. 

"  Is  it  that  Simmons  again  ?  "  he  said,  questioning. 

"  They're  going  to  have  a  camp-meeting  at  West  Point, 
and  they  are  crazy  to  make  me  go  to  it.  Mother  and 
Sam  are  going,  and  maybe  Libbie,  too,  though  she  wants 
me  to  instead,  and  says  she  will  get  the  Johnsons  to 
come  and  stay  nights." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  ?  "  asked  Hiram. 

"  No,  no,"  fluttered  Mary. 

"  Then  don't  go." 

"  Libbie  will  have  a  fit." 


1 96  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  She's  had  'em  before,"  said  Hiram. 

"  Mother  doesn't  say  much,  but  she  takes  it  for  granted 
I'm  going,  and  so  does  Libbie ;  and  they're  helping  me 
with  my  dresses." 

"  Just  fool  'em ;  and,  when  the  time  comes  to  say  it, 
say,  '  I'm  not  going,  thank  you  1 '  "  advised  Hiram. 

"  Hiram,  Mr.  Simmons  is  coming  up  to-morrow  after 
noon, —  I  overheard  mother  talking  with  Libbie, —  and  I 
am  afraid  he  is  going  to  make  me  promise  to  go.  You 
know  he  will  be  one  of  the  principal  preachers  at  West 
Point." 

"  Will  he  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and,  if  he  asks  me,  some  way  I  —  It's  hard  to 
say  no.  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  Mr.  Simmons." 

"I  ain't,"  said  Hiram,  sturdily. 

"Hiram,  if  they  get  me  there  by  themselves  and  all 
alone,  and  with  the  excitement  of  the  meeting,  there's  no 
telling  what  they'll  make  me  promise." 

"  You  have  promised  me  one  thing,"  he  said  fondly. 

"  But  they  won't  let  me.  I  can't  keep  that  promise, 
Hiram.  It  would  break  their  hearts  if  I  kept  that." 

"  Now  look  here,  Mary,"  he  said,  taking  her  face  in  his 
hands  and  turning  it  squarely  up  to  him.  "  You  made  me 
a  promise  to  marry  me,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Hiram,"  softly. 

"  Well,  if  you  can't  keep  your  promise  to  marry  me 
now,  you  at  all  events  can't  break  it,  can  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  break  it,  Hiram." 

"  And  you  will  not  ?  " 

"  No,  Hiram." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  But,  Hiram,  you've  no  idea  how  they  torment  me." 

"  So  that  Persimmons  is  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow, 
is  he  ?  "  This  thoughtfully. 


Qjuicksand  197 

"  O  Hiram,  you  mustn't  be  around.  I  should  be 
frightened  out  of  my  life." 

"  How  would  I  frighten  you  ?  "  he  asked  amusedly. 

"  Mother  says  sailors  are  so  rough  and  —  and  hasty." 

Hiram  laughed  merrily.  "  Mary,  why  are  you  afraid  of 
sailors  ?  I  haven't  been  on  the  sea  for  ten  years,  but  I'll 
go  again  if  you  don't  marry  me  quick." 

"  Don't  go  now,  dear  Hiram." 

"  And,  before  I  went  to  sea,  I  used  to  live  with  your 
father  and  mother." 

"  I  remember  how  you  looked,"  said  Mary,  wistfully. 

"  Oh,  you  do." 

"  But  now,  I've  got  to  go  to  Johnsons'  after  their  big 
brass  kettle.  I  told  Libbie  I  was,  and  she'll  ask  them 
about  it  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  they  are  watching  you.  Mary,  let's  run  away, 
like  Hubert." 

"  Where  should  we  go  ?  " 

"  Go  and  ask  Preacher  Simmons  to  marry  us.  Just  to 
see  how  he'd  take  the  joke." 

Then  he  began  teasing  her  for  kisses,  and  she  ran  away 
like  a  girl  instead  of  a  woman  of  twenty-five.  And  he 
was  pursuing  like  a  boy,  laughing  and  holding  her  arms 
tight,  rubbing  his  rough  face  against  her  cheek  and  get 
ting  his  prickly  mustache  in  her  eyes. 

Finally,  she  got  away  from  him. 

"I'll  never  come  again,"  she  protested. 

"  Until  you  can  get  away  from  Libbie,"  he  laughed ;  and 
then,  as  a  final  parting,  "  I'll  be  at  work  in  the  potato 
field  to-morrow,  and,  if  you  need  any  help,  just  spread  a 
towel  on  the  end  of  the  grape  arbor.  I'll  be  with  you  in 
a  jiffy." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  disappeared  from  view  among 
the  trees. 


XXXII. 

HIRAM  was  at  work  in  the  potato  field  the  next 
day,  hilling  up  the  earth  around  the  succulent 
young  plants,  and  whistling  "  They  All  love 
Jack."  Sometimes  he  would  hum  a  stanza  for  variation 
or  round  in  a  shout  on  the  chorus.  He  kept  an  eye  on 
the  farm-house  up  the  hill ;  though,  for  that  matter,  he 
usually  did, —  just  to  see  if  Mary  might  step  out.  As  he 
whistled  and  hoed,  he  was  thinking. 

"  How  am  I  going  to  handle  that  Persimmons,  anyway  ? 
Any  other  man,  now,  I  could  thrash ;  but  it's  a  disgrace, 
I  suppose,  to  thrash  a  preacher.  Preachers  are  some 
thing  like  women  :  there's  no  way  of  handling  them  except 
by  talking  religion.  I  'm  not  much  at  talking  religion." 
He  moved  along  with  the  whistling.  "  But  Persimmons 
has  got  to  let  Mary  alone.  He  must  promise  me.  I'll 
make  him  do  it  some  way,  even  if  I  have  to  talk  religion." 
Here  the  chorus  came  in  loud  and  strong.  It  sounded 
more  like  a  war-whoop  than  a  love-song. 

In  the  afternoon  the  potatoes  were  finished  just  as 
Minister  Simmons's  black-covered  buggy  was  stopping  at 
the  Hinckley  gate. 

"I'll  go  up  and  pick  some  currants,"  said  Hiram. 
"  Mrs.  Hinckley  will  like  some  to  put  with  her  raspberries. 
Her  currants  are  not  good  this  year.  So  they  will  take  her 
to  camp-meeting,  will  they  ?  The  one  thing  that  keeps 
Mate  from  perfection  is  just  a  little  wanting  of  spunk. 
Still,  if  she  had  it,  she'd  not  be  so  perfect  as  she  is,"  he 
added  thoughtfully.  He  took  a  tin  milk-pail  from  the 
rack  in  the  sunshine,  and  walked  off  to  the  currant 
bushes.  They  were  still  further  up  the  hill  than  the 
potatoes,  just  joining  the  Hinckleys'  land.  "  Libbie  '11 
be  coming  down  to  help  me  if  I  don't  keep  myself  out  of 


Qjuicksand  199 

sight,"  his  thoughts  ran.  "  Now  there's  a  case  of  pure 
meddling.  Why  couldn't  they  have  let  that  girl  marry 
Oliver  ?  He's  worth  a  dozen  of  the  Persimmons.  That 
chalk-faced,  lantern-jawed  booby  1  How  women  will  run 
for  a  minister,  especially  women  who  are  married  or  too 
old  to  marry."  He  kept  well  in  the  shade  of  the  hedge 
until  he  had  reached  the  line  of  the  currant  bushes.  Then 
he  stepped  out  nimbly  in  full  view  of  the  stone  house,  and 
knelt  down  behind  the  bushes  with  the  tin  pail  between 
his  knees,  and  began  picking  the  coral  red  clusters  of 
currants.  Occasionally  he  would  look  up  through  the 
bushes.  The  minister's  horse  was  gnawing  at  the  gate 
post.  All  was  quiet  about  the  house.  Then  he  would 
resume  the  picking,  sometimes  humming  softly, — 

"  Mistress  Mary,  quite  contrary, 
How  does  your  garden  grow  ? " 

"  Hello  1  there's  Mrs.  Hinckley  and  Libbie  going  out 
to  the  raspberry  patch.  So  they  will  pick  some  berries 
for  the  minister,  and  leave  him  with  Mary  in  the  house." 

His  picking  was  a  little  uneven  :  he  was  getting  a  good 
many  leaves  in  the  pail.  "  It  takes  a  preacher  for  a  trick 
like  that,"  he  was  muttering, —  "  to  take  advantage  of  a 
woman."  He  kept  on  picking  for  twenty  minutes.  His 
haste  now  was  to  fill  the  pail.  "  That's  full  enough,"  he 
said  suddenly.  "  I  think  I'll  take  it  right  up."  He 
began  walking  very  fast,  considering  the  heat  of  the  day  ; 
and  the  stern,  set  look  on  his  face  was  hardly  the  expres 
sion  one  sees  when  a  gentleman  gives  a  present  to  a  lady. 

Libbie  saw  him  going  toward  the  house,  and  called  out 
from  the  raspberry  bushes,  "  Hiram,  come  over  here." 

The  wind  must  have  been  blowing  the  wrong  way,  for 
she  could  not  make  him  hear  her,  and  she  started  with  her 
mother  for  the  house, —  they  could  hardly  tell  what  was 
their  reason. 


200  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

As  Hiram  turned  the  corner  of  the  grape  arbor,  he  saw 
something  that  set  him  on  fire. 

Mary  was  sitting  on  the  kitchen  porch,  crying;  and 
Minister  Simmons  was  leaning  over  behind  her.  He  was 
in  the  act  of  slipping  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  his 
right  hand  was  moving  toward  her  chin.  His  long  red 
beard  hung  down  in  front,  half  concealing  the  sobbing 
girl's  face.  "  It  is  your  soul  that  is  in  trouble,"  he  was 
saying. 

Hiram  did  not  set  down  his  currants.  He  merely 
transferred  the  pail  from  right  hand  to  left.  His  right 
hand  clutched  the  down-hanging  red  beard ;  and,  with  a 
series  of  violent  jerks  that  threatened  entirely  to  dislodge 
the  surprised  minister's  head,  he  yanked  him  into  the 
middle  of  the  yard,  and  brought  him  up  face  to  face  with 
his  fury,  his  blue  eyes  blazing  like  fires. 

"  If  you  want  to  talk  about  souls,  come  to  me,"  he  said 
scornfully.  "  That  woman  has  promised  to  be  my  wife, 
and  my  soul  goes  along  with  hers." 

The  minister  could  only  make  clatter  with  his  teeth,  for 
Hiram's  grip  still  quivered  in  his  whiskers. 

"  Now  take  off  your  coat,  and  we  will  fight,"  said 
Hiram,  letting  go  with  a  final  shake.  "  I'll  hold  this  pail 
behind  me  with  one  hand,  so  as  to  give  you  equal  advan 
tage,  though  you  are  an  inch  taller  than  I  am,  and  have 
skin  and  bones  enough  for  two." 

"  I  don't  fight,"  said  Mr.  Simmons,  summoning  all  the 
dignity  left  him.  "  I  am  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  and  I 
don't  fight." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  ?  Then  we'll  see  if  we  can  warm  you 
to  a  spar."  And  the  irate  Hiram  began  cuffing  him,  a  slap 
on  each  side  of  the  jaw,  first  one  side,  then  on  the  other, 
with  increasing  vigour  and  rapidity. 

The  minister  was  forced  to  defend  himself ;  but,  being 


Qjiicksand  201 

confused  in  his  arms,  he  brought  his  foot  into  action,  and 
gave  Hiram  an  ugly  kick  upward. 

"  So  that's  your  minister's  game  !  "  shouted  the  farmer, 
his  rage  now  at  whitest  of  heat.  "  We'll  put  a  stop  to 
that  trick."  With  his  left  hand  he  swung  the  pail  of  cur 
rants  ;  but,  not  using  it  as  a  weapon,  he  jammed  it 
instead,  with  quick  turning,  down  over  the  minister's  head, 
the  bail  swinging  under  his  chin.  Then  he  took  the  long 
preacher  by  the  collar,  and  snaked  him  backward  across 
the  yard  to  the  bench  where  the  milk-pans  were  sunning. 
He  drew  him  enough  out  of  the  direct  course  to  pass  by 
the  ash-barrel  under  the  plum-tree.  One  kick  of  Hiram's 
foot  sent  it  to  staves  ;  and,  catching  one  of  them  up  in  his 
hand,  he  sat  down  on  the  bench  very  lightly,  a  hip-catch 
throwing  the  preacher  over  his  knees  face  downward,  the 
currant  pail  still  on  his  head. 

"  I'll  teach  you  to  kick  me,  you  big  baby !  "  shouted 
Hiram,  angrily;  and,  crowding  the  minister's  kicking 
extremities  down  under  the  bench  and  binding  his  flutter 
ing  arms  with  his  left  hand,  he  laid  aside  the  barrel  stave 
only  long  enough  to  deliberately  turn  the  skirts  of  the 
ministerial  black  coat  over  the  helmeted  head,  and  then 
with  the  barrel  stave  flatwise  he  rained  its  resounding 
spanks  square  across  two  shiny  worn  patches,  doubtless 
sewed  in  by  the  minister's  first  wife,  but  now  needing  the 
repairs  of  a  second.  Hiram's  rage  was  increasing  with 
the  blows, —  the  minister  would  not  be  able  to  sit  down 
at  the  camp-meeting, —  when  fortunate  interruption  came. 

Libbie  and  Mrs.  Hinckley  appeared,  and  the  noise  had 
called  Sam  from  the  barn.  Their  screams  brought  Hiram 
to  himself ;  and  his  anger,  going  as  fast  as  it  came,  left  him 
with  a  grim  smile,  surveying  the  flourishing  black  extrem 
ities  of  the  preacher  with  the  tin  pail  wedged  tightly  over 
his  head.  A  jerk  of  the  collar  brought  the  culprit  to  his 


202  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

feet.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  circle,  his  trembling 
bony  hand  working  and  clutching  at  the  bail  under  his 
chin. 

It  was  Libbie  who  first  began  laughing.  The  minister 
looked  so  ridiculously  funny  as  he  drew  the  pail  from  his 
head  and  dug  the  currants  and  leaves  from  his  eyes. 
His  red  beard,  unused  to  this  treatment,  was  sticking  out 
front  like  a  goat's,  and  was  decorated  with  clusters  of  the 
currants,  which  also  lay  in  piles  on  his  shoulders  and  juicy 
pulp  over  his  ears,  while  the  top  of  his  head  was  soft 
jam.  Libbie  was  inclined  to  be  hysterical,  and  then  Mary 
joined  in  with  her ;  and  Sam  lay  down  on  the  ground,  and 
rolled  till  his  black  hair  was  filled  with  the  ashes  that 
Hiram  had  kicked  out  of  the  barrel. 

Only  Mrs.  Hinckley  did  not  smile,  but  brought  the 
minister  a  towel.  Then  she  turned  to  Hiram  coldly. 

"  You  may  leave  this  house  forever,"  she  said  drily. 
"  Never  darken  my  doors  again  1  " 

Hiram  went  away  toward  the  cabin,  picking  up  the 
battered  milk-pail.  In  truth,  he  did  not  feel  like  laugh 
ing.  The  heat  of  his  passion  had  left  him  only  chagrin. 
It  was  not  until  he  had  filled  his  pail  a  second  time  with 
currants,  and  had  seen  the  preacher's  buggy  drive  away, 
and  Sam  had  come  down  to  join  him,  that  his  risibles 
seized  the  control.  Sam  was  broadly  grinning  as  he 
approached ;  and  he  began  to  tell  how  they  cleaned  up  the 
minister,  when  suddenly  Hiram  lay  down  on  the  ground 
and  began  to  double  up  like  a  jack-knife.  In  a  flash  the 
two  men  were  rolling  together,  reploughing  the  soft  earth 
with  their  heads  as  they  whooped  and  shouted  in  laughter. 
Sam  took  a  hitch  in  his  stomach  that  made  him  sore  for  a 
week ;  and  still  the  two  roared  and  gasped,  while  the  black- 
topped  buggy  jogged  away. 


XXXIII. 

THAT  very  week  the  gossip  went  through  the 
neighbourhood  that  Minister  Simmons  was  engaged 
to  Letty  Green.  "  The  Hinckleys  have  made 
another  failure,"  said  the  spiteful  ones.  "  It  looks  as  if 
Libbie  was  going  to  be  an  old  maid,  after  all  her  trouble." 

Something  of  quite  as  much  import  as  the  minister's 
engagement  had  resulted  to  the  Hinckley  family,  and  that 
was  that  Hiram  Stubbs  was  forbidden  the  house.  Mrs. 
Hinckley  had  pronounced  the  ultimatum. 

"  Why,  I  shall  never  dare  to  go  to  church  in  Fort 
Madison  again  after  that  disgraceful  affair.  I  could  not 
bear  to  look  Mr.  Simmons  in  the  face." 

"  No.  I  shall  always  think  of  his  eyes  full  of  currants 
and  the  bunches  of  them  tangled  in  his  beard,"  said 
Libbie,  who  had  been  pleading  Hiram's  cause. 

"  Libbie,  I  can  never  forgive  you  for  laughing  in  his 
face.  I  should  not  have  thought  you  capable  of  it,  and 
you  a  convert  to  religion  and  a  member  of  the  church  in 
good  standing." 

"  But,  mother,  his  arms  and  legs  were  like  a  windmill. 
And  did  you  see  the  dust  rise  from  those  patches  ?  " 

"  The  vulgar  trick  of  a  low  sailor,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley, 
with  severity.  "  I  have  always  said  no  good  can  come  of 
a  sailor,  and  I'm  glad  I've  been  instrumental  in  preserving 
my  Mary  from  such  a  fate  as  becoming  his  wife." 

"  I  don't  think  Hiram  will  tell  if  the  minister  doesn't," 
suggested  Mary. 

"It  is  enough.  We  will  speak  no  more  of  Hiram. 
Henceforth  you  will  not  speak  to  him  if  you  are  my 
daughter,  and  I  have  told  Mary  the  same." 

"  Sam  speaks  to  him,"  said  Libbie,  sullenly. 

"  A   man   may   do   things   that   are   not  proper  for  a 


204  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

woman."  And  Mrs.  Hinckley  had  made  an  end  of 
objections. 

While  Libbie  recognised  that  there  was  some  justice 
in  punishing  Mary,  since  she  had  been  the  one  who  had 
brought  it  all  about,  she  did  not  consider  herself  bound 
by  this  mandate,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  speak  to 
Hiram  the  first  time  that  she  saw  him  alone.  One  day 
she  heard  his  axe  ringing  out  in  the  woods  down  on  the 
creek.  Mary  had  gone  to  the  Johnsons'  and  her  mother 
was  at  work  canning  raspberries.  Libbie  had  not  seen 
Hiram  for  two  weeks.  She  would  put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
go  out  hunting  wild  flowers.  Perhaps  she  would  go  down 
by  the  creek.  She  put  on  her  afternoon  dress  and  a 
pretty  apron  with  pockets.  Then  she  gave  a  last  glance 
in  the  mirror.  "  I  am  not  so  homely  a  girl  yet,"  was  her 
verdict,  as  she  ran  up  over  the  hill,  and  down  again 
across  the  pasture  toward  the  creek.  The  sound  of  the 
axe  stopped  about  here.  Perhaps  Hiram  would  soon  be 
returning.  Anyway,  he  must  come  along  the  path.  It 
would  be  quite  as  well  to  meet  him  accidentally.  She 
stopped  in  the  pasture  to  gather  some  of  the  flame-coloured 
milk-weed,  sometimes  known  as  "  queen  of  the  meadow." 
"  It  would  be  very  becoming  in  my  hair,"  she  was  think 
ing,  "if  it  were  not  for  the  sticky,  milky  juice  soiling 
everything."  But  she  gathered  it  wherever  it  grew  till 
she  carried  a  huge  clump  of  its  fiery  red  glow  in  her  arms. 
Why  did  not  Hiram  return  ?  She  walked  slowly  on 
along  the  path. 

Meanwhile,  Mary,  too,  had  heard  the  axe.  Perhaps  it 
was  intended  Mary  should  hear,  for  Hiram  was  getting 
very  lonely.  Mary  might  go  to  the  Johnsons',  and  she 
might  pass  around  by  the  wood.  That  was  the  reason 
the  axe  stopped  and  Libbie  had  not  heard  its  note  ring 
ing. 


QJI  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  205 

"Ahl  little  Mary,"  he  said,  running  to  her  with  out 
stretched  arms. 

"It  is  very  wrong  of  me  to  come,  Hiram,"  she  whis 
pered,  after  a  silence. 

"  Wrong  to  come  and  see  the  man  you  have  accepted 
for  your  husband  ?  " 

"When  my  mother  has  forbidden  it,  Hiram." 

"  Ah  !  but  husbands  have  rights  as  well  as  mothers,  and 
I  forbid  you  not  to  come." 

"  It  would  be  very  sweet  to  be  married,"  said  Mary, 
with  a  wistful  pleading  in  her  brown,  happy  face. 

"  Sit  down.  No,  here  by  my  knee,  but  facing  me,  so  I 
can  look  into  your  eyes.  Now  give  me  both  hands,  little 
Mary;  for  I  have  something  to  tell  you."  He  took  her 
two  hands  in  his  one,  when  they  had  made  themselves 
comfortable.  Sometimes  he  held  them  to  his  cheek.  His 
right  hand  was  free,  smoothing  her  hair.  She  loved  the 
great  palm  and  firm  fingers  delicately  touching  her  hair, 
brushing  it  away  from  her  forehead. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  tell,  Hiram  ?  I  must  not  stay 
very  long." 

"  Listen,  Mary !  I  will  finish  up  my  work  here  early 
this  year,  arrange  with  Sam  to  get  in  my  corn,  and  go  up 
to  Minnesota  for  the  harvest.  You  know  it  comes  later  in 
the  north." 

He  felt  her  hands  clutch  his  head,  but  he  only  laughed 
merrily  at  that. 

"  I  guess  you  love  me  all  right,  even  if  I  did  spank  your 
minister.  Well,  after  the  harvest,  I  will  try  to  get  more 
work.  I  might  even  go  into  Canada  hunting  for  the 
winter.  I  think  I  could  make  some  money  up  there." 

"  What  do  you  need  money  for,  Hiram  ?  "  She  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  his  going  away. 

"  Wait,    You  see  I  haven't  much  ah^ad,    I  put  most  of 


206  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

it  into  the  house  and  barn  and  all  of  the  improvements 
I've  made.  Now,  you  see,  this  is  my  plan:  I  will  come 
into  Chicago  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a  little  money,  and  you 
can  get  away  to  see  Hubert  some  way.  We  will  arrange 
that ;  and  then  we  will  be  married  in  Chicago,  and  stay 
away  for  a  time, —  long  enough  for  Libbie  to  get  over  it 
and  for  your  mother  to  forgive  you.  They  will  be  beg 
ging  us  back  in  six  months ;  and  everything  then  will  be 
settled,  and  we  will  move  into  the  new  house  at  last." 

"  It  sounds  very  sweet,"  sighed  Mary.  "  Are  you  sure 
mother  and  Libbie  would  forgive  us  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  Mary,"  he  said  solemnly.  "  We 
ought  to  have  done  it  four  years  ago  ;  but  you  kept  saying, 
'  Wait,  we  will  arrange  it.'  " 

"  I  wish  now  I  had  married  you  then.  It  would  have 
been  much  easier,"  said  Mary. 

"  Of  course ;  and  every  day  we  wait  it  gets  harder. 
Promise  me  you  will  do  it,  Mary." 

"  How  can  I  hear  from  you,  if  you  go  away  ?  "  she  said, 
temporizing.  "  Mother  may  stop  any  letters." 

"I '11  send  the  letters  to  Al  Johnson.  He'd  die  fora 
chance  to  serve  me." 

"  Everybody  loves  you,  Hiram." 

"  That's  the  trouble.  I  wish  it  was  only  you  who  loved 
me."  There  was  a  merry  sparkle  in  his  eye. 

"  Don't,  Hiram,"  she  pleaded,  pouting.  "  I  love  my 
sister  Libbie  very  dearly." 

"  As  a  sister,  she  will  do  very  well ;  but  you  have  not 
promised  me,  Mary." 

"  I  will  try,  Hiram." 

"  No,  no,  no.  Look  me  square  in  the  eye.  Promise 
me  you  will  do  it,  Mary." 

"  It  is  hard  to  do,  when  one  is  surrounded  and  coaxed 
and  managed." 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  207 

"  Promise,  Mary,"  he  said,  pleading,  his  own  earnest 
ness  getting  mastery  of  his  voice. 

"  I  promise,  Hiram,"  she  said,  half  crying ;  and  he 
caught  her  up  close  to  his  breast. 

"You  are  bound,"  he  said  to  her,  laughing  again. 
"  Keep  promising,  or  I'll  never  stop  kissing  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  stop  yet,  Hiram.  I've  been  so 
lonely  without  seeing  you  1  How  can  I  ever  stand  a 
whole  fall  and  a  winter  ?  " 

"  Because  spring  will  be  at  the  end,"  he  said  fondly. 
"  Spring  and  summer  and  all  the  winters  together." 

"  Yes,  I  promise,"  she  repeated  again  ;  "  and  we  won't 
need  much  money,  Hiram.  If  you  can  get  some  good 
place  to  work,  I  will  come  on  and  help  you."^ 

"  Would  you  work  out  for  my  sake,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'd  do  anything.  I'd  be  a  slave  for  you.  It's 
only  my  caring  for  mother  that  keeps  me  back.  Just  get 
a  place  to  work,  Hiram.  Never  mind  about  the  money." 

"  No,  my  wife  shall  have  things  comfortable,"  he  said 
proudly.  "  We  can  wait  till  another  spring.  Now  you 
must  promise  me  once  more.  Promise  me  as  hard  as  you 
love  me." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  hugged  him 
with  all  of  her  strength.  Just  then  Libbie  arrived. 

She  stood  as  if  petrified  for  a  moment,  and  then  made 
a  dash  to  snatch  Mary  away.  They  were  both  so  sur 
prised  at  the  interruption  that  they  had  sprung  up  from 
the  ground,  Hiram  holding  Mary's  hand  in  his  grip, 
though  she  tried  hard  to  draw  it  from  him.  Libbie  seized 
her  other  arm. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  you  obey  your  mother,  Miss  Mary, 
and  go  off  on  errands  to  the  Johnsons'  ?  Oh,  you  dis 
graceful  minx !  Drop  her  hand,  Hiram  Stubbs  !  How 
dare  you  face  me  in  this  brazen  manner  ?  " 


208  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"You  forget,  Libbie,"  he  said  good-naturedly  "that 
Mary  and  I  have  been  engaged  for  five  years,  and  that  I 
am  quite  able  to  protect  her  good  name." 

"  You  are  engaged  with  none  of  my  consent,"  snapped 
Libbie,  her  jealousy  burning  up  like  the  flowers  that  she 
still  held  clutched  in  her  hand. 

"  Your  consent  was  not  needed,"  replied  Hiram.  "  It 
was  Mary's  affair  and  mine." 

Libbie  could  not  endure  seeing  their  hands  clasped  to 
gether.  She  flung  the  flowers  in  Hiram's  face,  and  seized 
the  hands  that  were  clasped,  trying  to  pull  them  asunder. 

Hiram  was  still  laughing  slightly,  more  to  reassure  Mary 
than  because  he  felt  anything  but  pity. 

Libbie  was  exhausted  with  her  own  panting.  She  tried 
to  scratch  and  bite  Mary's  arm,  and  tore  open  her  thin 
summer  sleeve.  Then  she  seized  Hiram's  hand  with  her 
teeth,  and  bit  into  his  thumb  until  the  blood  ran. 

"  See  here,  this  is  getting  disgusting,"  he  said  in  an  irri 
tated  tone.  Then  he  put  his  hands  under  her  jaw,  and 
held  her  from  biting  again. 

But  his  touch  brought  complete  change  to  her.  His 
touch,  even  in  scorn,  went  to  her  heart.  She  would  die 
if  he  only  would  touch  her ;  and  now  all  the  force  turned 
to  weeping  for  happiness,  almost,  because  his  hands  lay 
upon  her.  In  a  passion  of  heavenly  weeping  or  of  hell 
weeping,  as  some  would  have  thought  it,  she  turned  and 
flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  forced  her  face  up  to 
his.  For  a  moment  her  strength  almost  equalled  his  own. 
She  would  break  all  her  strength  just  to  kiss  him. 

But  he  held  her  now  firmly  at  arm's  length.  "  You  are 
making  a  fool  of  yourself,  Libbie.  You  will  regret  this  all  of 
your  life.  Keep  off  1 "  And  he  released  his  hold.  "  Keep 
off,  I  say  I "  he  repeated,  as  she  made  a  second  spring. 
He  stepped  one  side'  as  she  came  at  him  ;  and  she  fell  in 


QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


209 

a  helpless  heap  on  the  ground,  crying  and  sobbing  on  the 
earth,  with  the  flame-coloured  flowers  around  her. 

"  Go  home  alone,  Mary,"  said  Hiram,  turning  on  the 
sister.  "  Leave  her  to  come  when  she  chooses." 

"  She  might  hurt  herself,"  faltered  Mary. 

"  She  is  not  so  apt  to  do  it  as  if  you  are  here,"  he  re 
plied.  "  Go  on,  and  I  will  go  the  other  way." 

Mary  saw  it  was  the  best.  Hiram  took  his  axe  with 
him,  and  signalled  that  he  would  watch  Libbie  from  the 
distance. 

They  left  her  in  a  spasm  of  weeping,  clutching  at  the 
flame-coloured  flowers. 


XXXIV. 

MRS.  HINCKLEY  had  never  been  in  such  a  large 
city  as  Chicago,  but  she  felt  little  fear  or  confu 
sion.  The  smoke  and  dirt  and  dreariness  im 
pressed  her  more  than  anything  else.  What  a  dreadful 
place  for  Hubert  to  live  I  It  must  be  his  wife's  will  that 
keeps  him  here.  How  can  he  breathe  in  such  a  place  ? 
Once,  when  the  train  went  jangling  through  a  network  of 
tracks,  it  did  seem  to  her  a  little  dangerous, —  there  was 
on  every  hand  a  chance  of  collision.  Then  it  occurred  to 
her  that  Hubert  might  not  be  at  the  station.  He  might  get 
lost  or  injured  ;  and  how  could  she  ever  find  him  in  that 
mixture  ?  But,  when  the  brakeman  called  out  Chicago, 
she  began  to  tremble  so  that  she  could  hardly  gather  up 
her  parcels.  She  had  not  seen  Hubert  for  over  a  ye:  r, 
and  the  sorrow  for  her  loneliness  was  sweeping  over  h(  r. 
The  porter  helped  her  out  into  the  gloomy  cavern  of  tl  .e 
station ;  and  the  crowd  went  rushing  by  her,  jostling  her 
valise  and  parcels.  What  a  big  place  1  How  could 
Hubert  ever  find  her  ?  And  then  he  came  running  up. 
So  handsome  and  stylish  he  had  grown,  and  this  while 
away  from  her  fostering !  A  pang  of  jealousy  for  the 
wife  she  had  never  seen  made  her  hug  her  boy  all  the 
closer,  and  look  for  some  hidden  discontent  or  mark  of 
sickness  in  his  face. 

"  You  haven't  changed  a  bit !  "  said  Hubert,  joyfully. 
"  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  look  a  day  older  1  " 

"  You  are  a  little  pale,  aren't  you  ?  "  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  still  upon  him.  Why  would  she  look  at  him  as  if  he 
were  a  baby  ?  It  almost  irritated  him  in  the  very  begin 
ning  ;  and  then  he  reproached  himself  for  it,  and  began  to 
pick  up  her  luggage. 

"  It  is  only  that  the  country  tan  is  off,  mother,  This  is 
the  way,  up  the  stairs." 


Quicksand  211 

"  We  must  have  you  in  the  country  again.  Libbie  and 
Mary  want  to  see  you." 

"  Maud  and  I  have  been  talking  of  a  vacation,  but  we 
haven't  much  money  for  extras.  She  did  not  come  down 
this  morning  because  she  thought  you'd  like  to  see  me 
alone  first." 

"  Are  you  happy  here  in  Chicago,  Hubert  ? "  she 
asked,  wistfully  scanning  him,  when  they  were  seated  in 
the  rumbling  car. 

"It  is  not  like  this  out  where  we  live,"  he  replied, 
laughing,  to  avoid  the  direct  answer.  "  Our  street  is  as 
quiet  as  Fort  Madison,  except  for  the  street  organs  and 
pianos." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall  like  it,"  the  mother 
announced  with  decision.  "  I  never  could  get  any 
sleep." 

The  talk  turned  to  questions  and  answers  about  the 
family  and  about  the  neighbours  in  the  country.  In  an 
hour  they  had  reached  Hubert's  house,  and  Mrs.  Hinck- 
ley  began  thinking  of  Hubert's  wife.  If  she  could  only 
have  Hubert  alone,  she  might  be  reconciled  even  to 
Chicago. 

Then  Maud  came  running  down  the  stairs,  taking  her 
parcels  and  kissing  her.  Certainly,  Hubert's  wife  was 
pretty.  She  understood  the  stylishness  of  dressing. 

"  Probably  she  spends  everything  on  her  clothes,"  was 
Mrs.  Hinckley's  mental  remark,  as  she  allowed  herself  to 
be  led  up  to  their  rooms. 

The  sitting-room,  however,  did  not  show  any  signs  of 
poverty,  but  was  dainty  and  fresh  as  a  picture.  "I'll 
wait  till  I  see  how  she  cooks,"  thought  Mrs.  Hinckley, 
reserving  her  judgment. 

"  So  you  live  upstairs,"  she  said  aloud.  "  I  should 
think  it  would  be  very  unhandy." 


212  Qjiicksand 

"  I  like  it.  I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  burglars,"  said 
Maud,  flitting  about  to  put  away  the  mother's  things. 

"  This  is  to  be  your  room.  Come,  and  we'll  show  you," 
said  Hubert.  "We  rented  it  especially  for  the  occa 
sion." 

"  Let  your  mother  rest  a  minute,"  said  Maud,  kindly. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  tired,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley, 
with  sudden  alacrity.  "  Oh,  yes,  the  room  will  do  very 
well,"  she  was  saying  a  few  minutes  later.  "  She  seems 
neat,  at  all  events,"  was  what  she  was  really  thinking. 

They  chatted  for  some  time  pleasantly,  and  then  Maud 
made  excuses  to  get  dinner. 

"  Is  it  possible  they  haven't  had  any  dinner  yet," 
thought  Mrs.  Hinckley.  "  No  wonder  Hubert  is  looking 
pale  ;  and  here  it  is  five  o'clock  !  I  wonder  what  he  had 
for  breakfast  ? " 

"  You  see,  mother,  here  we  have  our  dinner  in  the 
evening,  and  luncheon  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  It 
leaves  me  a  clearer  head  for  work  in  the  afternoon." 

"  It  can't  be  healthy,  Hubert,  eating  hearty  before  you 
go  to  bed." 

"  Oh,  we  don't  go  to  bed  before  eleven  or  twelve,  so 
there  is  plenty  of  time  for  digestion,"  laughed  Hubert; 
"but  you  can  go,  mother,  when  you  please." 

Mrs.  Hinckley  gave  some  pleasant  answer  for  Maud's 
sake,  but  inwardly  she  made  up  her  mind  to  effect  a  few 
changes  in  their  housekeeping  before  she  went  back  to 
the  farm. 

Maud  asked  her  in  to  see  the  kitchen,  a  place  not  so 
large  as  the  pantry  at  home,  but  shining  with  scrupulous 
cleanness. 

"  Where  is  your  stove  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"Here  on  this  table,"  laughed  Maud.  "You  see  we 
need  only  two  burners.  We  hardly  ever  use  the  oven 
when  we  are  all  by  ourselves." 


Qjiicksand  213 

"  Gasoline  1 "  gasped  Mrs.  Hinckley,  stepping  back 
ward. 

"  Oh,  there's  not  the  slightest  danger,  mother,"  said 
Hubert,  standing  at  her  shoulder. 

"  There  is  danger,  though, —  there  must  be  1  Only  last 
week  Sam  was  reading  in  the  paper  of  a  woman  and 
a  child  burned  to  death  !  " 

Hubert  was  explaining  that  this  was  through  careless 
ness  ;  but  Mrs.  Hinckley  was  nervous,  and  wondered  that 
she  had  found  her  boy  alive. 

The  supper,  as  Mrs.  Hinckley  persisted  in  calling  it, 
was  very  nice  when  it  came.  She  would  have  liked  it 
better,  she  thought,  if  there  had  been  less  show  of  flowers 
and  dishes,  and  more  substantial  victuals,  as  she  called 
the  food.  To  be  sure,  there  was  enough  and  something 
over,  but  not  enough  over  to  satisfy  her.  She  was  used 
to  having  her  table  loaded  with  victuals  and  plenty  to 
warm  up  in  the  morning.  After  Hubert  had  served  the 
second  helping,  there  were  actually  no  vegetables  left. 
Probably  that  was  the  reason  they  did  not  pass  things,  for 
fear  one  person  would  take  it  all.  Mrs.  Hinckley  was  not 
accustomed  to  having  her  portion  served  out  to  her  as  if 
she  were  a  prisoner  or  an  orphan  in  an  asylum,  even  if 
she  did  have  enough.  She  blamed  Maud  for  these  new 
fangled  ways,  and  wondered  how  Hubert  could  put  up 
with  them.  She,  for  her  part,  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
put  up  with  anything  when  she  came  here,  and  to  love 
Maud  as  if  she  were  her  daughter  for  Hubert's  sake,  if 
for  no  other  reason.  But  she  saw  now  it  was  going  to  be 
hard,  and  her  patience  would  be  tried  to  the  utmost. 

"  Where  is  the  Methodist  church  ?  "  she  asked  later  on 
in  the  evening. 

Hubert  was  prepared  for  this  question.  "  There  is  one 
two  blocks  from  here,  mother,  over  toward  the  lake." 


214  Qjiicksand 

Then  came  the  explanation  decided  upon.  "  Churches 
here  are  very  different  from  those  in  the  country.  You 
go  in  and  hear  the  sermon  and  the  music  and  all,  but 
people  do  not  make  it  so  much  of  a  social  gathering-place. 
Maud  and  I  don't  go  regularly  in  one  place,  and  you  will 
probably  do  the  same.  There  are  so  many  good  preachers 
in  Chicago  you  will  want  to  hear  as  many  as  you  can,  so 
one  doesn't  get  much  acquainted." 

"  But  don't  you  go  always  to  the  same  place  to  prayer- 
meeting  ? " 

"  We  don't  go  to  prayer-meeting  at  all.  I  usually  have 
to  work  in  the  evening." 

"  Well,  I  shall  go  to  prayer-meeting  and,  I  think,  always 
the  same  place  to  church.  I  don't  care  to  hear  all  the 
preachers  there  are.  One  is  enough  for  me,  if  he's  got  the 
true  religion." 

"  Maud  will  go  with  you  to  prayer-meeting,"  said 
Hubert ;  "  and  that's  a  great  favour  for  her,  because,  you 
know,  she  was  brought  up  Presbyterian." 

"I  have  nothing  against  the  Presbyterians,"  said  Mrs. 
Hinckley,  graciously.  "  But  what  about  Sunday-school, 
Hubert  ?  Don't  you  teach  in  a  class  ?  " 

"  Sunday-school  takes  so  much  time,  mother ;  and  we 
usually  go  walking  on  Sundays.  You  see,  Maud  and  I 
need  the  air  after  being  shut  in  the  house  all  the  week." 

Mrs.  Hinckley  said  no  more  about  religion  that  night. 
It  was  evident  that  Hubert's  wife  was  hurrying  him  off  to 
the  life  of  Satan  at  a  perilous  rate.  All  of  the  company 
seemed  a  little  embarrassed,  and  willing  to  drop  the  sub 
ject. 

"  Can't  you  sing  for  mother  ?  "  asked  Hubert,  with  his 
hand  caressing  the  soft  hand  of  his  wife. 

Maud  went  to  get  the  guitar  without  the  modest  waiting 
to  be  urged  and  pleading  of  a  cold  or  no  humour  for 
playing  that  Mrs.  Hinckley  was  accustomed  to. 


Quicksand  215 

"  You  sing  with  me,"  she  said,  strumming,  with  a  laugh 
ing  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  first,"  persisted  Hubert.  "Sing  *  Summer 
Night.' " 

Maud  sang  with  quietness  and  feeling.  Hubert  was 
very  proud  of  her. 

Then  they  both  sang  a  duet, —  a  love-song,  though 
Mrs.  Hinckley  did  not  catch  all  the  words.  Then  they 
sang  old  songs  that  the  mother  liked,  but  not  one  hymn 
or  sacred  song  of  any  kind.  She  did  ask  for  one  song, 
finally,  that  was  popular  at  that  time  in  the  churches; 
but  Hubert  did  not  know  the  words,  though  Maud  did 
hum  the  air  over. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  retired  that  night  early,  but  not  to  sleep 
for  some  hours.  She  had  half  expected  Hubert  to  have 
prayers,  though  what  could  lead  her  to  expect  that  she 
could  hardly  know,  she  told  herself,  after  not  saying  grace 
before  supper.  It  was  plain  he  left  everything  to  Maud, 
with  whom  he  still  seemed  to  be  infatuated. 

Well,  it  was  a  good  thing  she  had  come  on  this  visit. 
Libbie  had  been  right,  after  all.  She  said  her  own 
prayers  by  her  bedside  that  night,  but  it  was  not  like 
having  the  family  with  her.  "  Prayer  is  not  prayer  when 
you  are  alone,"  she  said.  "  The  Lord  does  not  like  only 
one.  It  does  not  seem  respectful.  It's  sin.  And  the 
eating  and  the  gasoline  stove  1  How  has  Hubert  lived 
through  it  ? " 


XXXV. 

THERE  are  probably  very  few  mothers  who,  if 
they  could  speak  from  the  heart,  would  be  satis 
fied  with  the  wife  a  son''  has  chosen,  and  not  wish 
that  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  A  mother's  love  must 
feel  the  wound  when  her  son  turns  to  another  woman 
with  a  tenderer  affection  than  that  he  has  cherished  for 
her,  try  as  she  may  to  conceal  it.  The  filial  confidences 
that  she  has  received,  or,  if  she  has  never  received  them, 
that  she  has  craved  all  the  more,  are  now  stopped  off 
short  when  a  confidence  too  deep  for  a  mother  comes  into 
the  growing  boy's  life.  He  may,  indeed,  tell  part.  He 
wishes  her  to  know  of  his  joy ;  but  that  he  should  speak 
to  her  as  to  the  girl  he  loves,  laying  his  very  soul  bare, 
and  that  with  soft  words  and  caresses  such  as  the  mother 
desires,  this  is  impossible  to  him.  It  would  be  simple 
sacrilege  to  do  it.  And  yet  the  mother  heart  yearns,  no 
matter  how  her  wisdom  checks  yearning.  It  is  one  of 
the  tragedies  of  life.  The  tragedies  of  death  are  balm 
beside  it. 

There  is  one  kind  of  marriage  that  is  different,  that 
will  give  even  joy  to  the  mother ;  and  that  is  where,  as  in 
old  tradition,  the  mother  chooses  the  bride  for  her  son. 
That  was  the  method  when  the  true  family  life  was  at 
perfection.  Now  we  are  breaking  into  individual  life, 
and  transitions  must  always  mean  heartaches. 

"My  son,  you  are  lonely.  Come  to  me,"  said  the 
olden-time  family  mother.  "  Tell  me  what  is  grieving 
your  heart." 

But  the  youth  does  not  know  as  yet,  except  that  his 
boyhood  sports  give  no  comfort. 

"Let  me  bring  you  a  wife,"  said  the  mother,  "a 
sweet  girl.  I  have  watched  her  from  babyhood,  always 
intending  her  for  you." 


Qjuicksand  217 

The  youth  is  bashful,  is  persuaded.  The  mother 
brings  them  together  and  is  happy,  now  having  a  son  and 
a  daughter. 

That  was  the  olden-time  mother.  And  mothers  will 
cling  to  traditions  where  children  will  never  once  feel 
them,  until  they,  if  they  be  girls,  become  mothers. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  was,  perhaps,  not  more  jealous  than 
many  mothers  we  know.  She  had  been  deceived  more 
than  some ;  but  this  may  have  been  her  own  care.  At 
all  events,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  like  Hubert's  wife  as 
much  as  possible.  There  were  many  things  she  must 
teach  her;  for  Hubert  had  a  delicate  organization  that 
only  a  mother  could  understand.  Still,  Maud  was  defer 
ential  and  willing,  and  doubtless  would  do  well  with  time. 
"  Only  I  should  have  come  before,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 
"  They  have  fallen  into  very  bad  ways." 

She  began  gently  the  next  morning  by  reminding  them 
that  they  should  rise  earlier.  She  did  not  go  into  the 
sitting-room  or  speak  of  the  matter  afterward.  She 
merely  rose  herself  at  an  early  hour,  and  made  enough 
noise  in  the  hallway  to  let  them  know  that  she  was  stir 
ring  and  active.  She  went  out  for  a  walk,  and  spoke  to 
them  of  the  pleasure  it  gave  her  at  breakfast.  After  she 
had  been  with  them  a  few  days,  she  began  to  say  that  she 
should  think  Hubert  might  write  so  much  better  in  the 
morning,  when  the  air  was  invigorating  and  inspiring. 
Then  she  offered  to  help  Maud  prepare  the  breakfast  the 
night  before.  Then  she  would  hurry  through  breakfast  to 
get  the  work  done  so  that  Hubert  could  begin  early  this 
morning.  Then  she  asked  Maud  to  go  out  with  her  to 
do  some  shopping  or,  perhaps,  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
park.  Could  Hubert  work  better  alone? 

She  wanted  to  ask  him  more  about  his  writing ;  but  at 
this  time  she  did  not  dare,  being  fearful  of  offending. 


2i8  Qjiicksand 

She  had  asked,  indeed,  and  in  a  general  impersonal  way 
he  had  answered ;  but  the  real  answer  he  had  not  given, 
and  the  mother  love  longed  for  the  confidence.  That 
which  made  her  long  the  more,  which  made  her  jealousy 
burn,  even  though  in  honesty  she  would  not  have  thought 
it  was  jealousy,  was  the  fact  that  Maud  was  in  the  con 
fidence  ;  and  she  must  undergo  the  humiliation  of  asking 
her  and  the  chagrin  of  being  put  gently  aside  without 
the  coveted  information. 

Watching  still  perseveringly  for  her  chance,  but  with 
love  chiefly  uppermost  for  her  reason,  she  noted  with 
some  satisfaction  that  the  two  were  not  always  happy 
together,  that  there  was  some  friction  between  them  at 
times ;  and  she  thought  they  needed  some  one  to  advise 
them  and  act  as  mediator  in  quarrels.  Now  who  could 
do  this  so  well  as  his  mother,  who  had  watched  Hubert 
from  infancy  ?  Mrs.  Hinckley  began  to  like  Maud  at  this 
time,  and  to  try  to  win  her  confidence  and  confession. 

"  Was  she  happy  alway  with  Hubert  ?  " 

Maud  hardly  knew  whether  she  was  happy  or  not.  She 
supposed  that  she  was,  on  the  whole,  and  never  hesitated 
at  the  affirmation.  Still,  she  might  not  be  happy,  though 
she  had  hardly  considered  it  before. 

In  truth,  the  wife,  like  the  mother,  was  cramped  in  her 
present  understanding.  She  had  married  Hubert,  think 
ing  that  love  was  enough,  that  it  was  all  a  woman  needed 
in  life.  But  she  was  a  young  woman  and  growing  still, 
and  she  had  given  herself  no  work  to  do ;  and  work  is 
needed  for  a  woman  quite  as  much  as  for  a  man,  if  good 
health  is  to  follow.  Some  women  can  make  work  with 
their  children,  and  think  they  are  doing  quite  enough  in 
giving  themselves  up  for  them.  The  result  is  that  they 
ruin  the  children,  and  are  only  half  satisfied  in  the  end, 
becoming  other  Mrs.  Hinckleys.  Maud  as  yet  having 


Q^uicksand  219 

no  children  to  care  for,  missed  this  dear  old  delusion. 
The  housekeeping  did  not  take  up  her  time,  she  had  no 
friends  to  make  her  enjoy  idleness,  even  her  love  for 
Hubert  would  not  occupy  all  the  hours  of  the  day.  Maud, 
too,  was  suffering  from  the  family,  and  in  time  would 
listen  to  Mrs.  Hinckley,  and  conclude  it  must  all  be  about 
Hubert,  and  because  his  stories  would  not  bring  him 
success. 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  him  into  the  country,"  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Hinckley  one  day,  when  they  were  talking  on  the 
usual  subject,  because  they  had  no  work  of  their  own. 
"We  had  hoped  to  take  a  vacation  this  year.  You 
know  Hubert's  best  work  is  of  the  life  of  the  country,  but 
he  has  had  an  offer  of  a  regular  salary  this  year  as  a 
teacher's  assistant,  looking  over  examination  papers,  and 
he  thinks  he  is  too  poor  to  refuse  it ;  and  it  may  of  course 
lead  to  something  better  if  the  publishers  do  not  see  fit 
to  reconsider  his  manuscripts." 

It  was  meat  for  a  day  to  Mrs.  Hinckley  that  Hubert 
wrote  best  of  country  life.  Perhaps  she  would  hear  more 
some  day  if  he  would  talk  more  freely  alone.  Just  now 
she  spoke  out  a  longing  that  had  been  growing  some  thne 
in  her  breast. 

"  Why  don't  you  and  Hubert  come  and  visit  us  on  the 
farm  this  winter  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  wouldn't  have  to  pay 
any  board,  so  that  your  money  could  go  into  railroad  fare. 
It  would  be  a  great  comfort  for  us  to  have  him.  His  sisters 
are  grieving  to  see  him."  In  short,  her  arguments  went 
on ;  and  Maud  was  set  to  considering  the  matter,  and  won 
dering  if  they  really  could. 

Meanwhile  the  process  of  household  education  was  go 
ing  on,  working  an  influence  of  its  own.  Hubert  began 
to  see  that  they  were  not  living  as  they  should.  They 
did  not  have  exercise  enough  in  the  open  air,  perhaps 


220  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

they  were  not  sleeping  enough,  or  the  food  was  not 
nourishing  as  it  should  be.  At  all  events,  he  was  not 
working  well  on  the  novels  he  had  tried.  He  seemed  to 
be  losing  his  old  poetic  flow  of  language.  Chicago  would 
inspire  him  no  longer.  Then,  too,  from  being  told  so 
often  of  his  pallor,  from  having  his  appetite  questioned 
and  his  digestion  constantly  considered,  he  began  to  feel, 
perhaps,  that  his  health  was  suffering  a  little,  and  to 
long  for  the  old  sports  with  Hiram  and  the  sumptuousness 
of  his  own  mother's  table. 

Concerning  the  matter  with  Hiram,  he  received  little 
encouragement  from  his  mother.  He  knew  from  Mary's 
letters  that  Hiram  had  grown  in  disfavour  on  account  of 
some  hastiness  with  the  minister,  and  he  also  learned  from 
his  mother  that  Hiram  had  gone  north  to  work  in  the 
harvest,  but  his  mother  knew  nothing  more  about  him  or 
when  he  intended  returning. 

The  old  farm  and  the  childhood  surroundings,  the  love 
for  his  mother  and  sisters,  his  desire  to  see  Sam  once 
more, —  all  these  were  pulling  on  Hubert  as  his  mother 
talked  to  him  of  them,  and  made  the  invitation  more 
tempting  by  forgetting  the  disagreeable  points  and  the 
endless  worry  and  routine. 

Did  he  not  owe  it  to  his  work  to  go  back  to  the  things 
that  inspired  him  ?  Did  he  not  owe  it,  again,  to  his  family, 
who  had  done  so  much  to  educate  him,  and  now  were 
getting  no  joy  from  his  learning  ?  How  proud  they  would 
all  be  of  him  1  and  even  the  neighbours  would  respect  him. 
Then  the  bugbear  of  religion  he  had  been  fearing.  Per 
haps  that  was  all  passed  away  now.  His  mother  hardly 
mentioned  the  matter.  Would  not  Maud,  too,  be  glad  of 
the  change  ?  The  companionship  of  his  sisters  ?  He 
talked  it  over  with  her ;  and  she  seemed  quite  willing  to 
go,  but  said  he  must  think  only  of  himself. 


Quicksand  221 

His  prospects  here, —  how  were  they  better?  This 
drudgery  of  endless  arithmetic  and  geography  papers? 
He  might  as  well  be  teaching  the  country  school  at  home 
and  making  double  the  money.  To  be  sure,  that  en 
tailed  responsibility ;  and  here  he  was  free  from  all  worry. 
In  the  end,  what  difference  would  it  make,  when  his 
novels  came  out  and  made  him  famous  ?  When  he  came 
to  the  city,  he  had  thought  it  better  to  be  near  the  pub 
lishing  houses ;  but,  once  he  had  tried  to  take  advantage 
of  that,  he  found  there  was  no  advantage  in  it.  The 
editors  did  not  take  any  interest  in  him  or  his  books,  but 
rather  seemed  to  scorn  them,  he  thought,  because  he 
could  not  send  a  messenger  or  pay  the  postage  of  the 
mails.  Moreover,  the  houses  in  Chicago  all  said  they 
did  not  wish  to  take  up  new  material.  He  was  turned 
off  with  a  word,  and  now  sent  all  material  to  New  York 
or  Boston,  of  course  there  to  have  it  refused,  but  with  a 
feeling  that  it  received  as  much  consideration  as  if  he 
presented  it  in  person. 

The  dissatisfaction,  the  old  childhood  yearning,  the 
mother  love  pleading  and  managing,  all  had  their  way  in 
the  end.  The  high-school  teacher  was  told  to  look  other 
where  for  an  assistant,  the  Irish  landlady  was  given  due 
warning,  and  Hubert  and  Maud  and  Mrs.  Hinckley 
packed  ,  trunks  and  took  tickets  for  Fort  Madison. 
Whether  it  was  for  the  best,  Hubert  was  still  very  much 
doubtful. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  wrote  home  a  note  for  Sam  to  meet 
them  at  the  train.  As  Libbie  read  the  few  lines  aloud, 
they  flowed  like  a  chant  of  triumph. 


XXXVI. 

IT  was  beautiful  the  first  day, —  the  mellow  October 
landscape,  the  river  flowing  as  ever,  the  glow  of 
home  love  and  reunion.  Libbie  and  Mary  kissed 
Maud,  and  felt  that  they  extended  to  her  forgiveness. 
The  supper  table  was  gay  that  evening.  Hubert  did  not 
mind  calling  it  supper,  and  even  Sam's  asking  the  bless 
ing  was  welcome.  After  the  work  was  done,  Maud  asking 
to  help  with  the  dishes,  they  reassembled  around  the 
lamp  ;  and  it  was  almost  as  if  their  father  were  there  and 
Hiram  sitting  by  the  wood-box,  whittling  some  toy  for  a 
baby.  Afterward  came  family  prayers,  Sam  conducting 
the  ceremony,  reading  first  a  chapter  from  the  Bible. 
They  all  knelt  down  by  their  chairs,  and  listened  to  the 
drone  of  his  praying.  This,  too,  had  the  flavour  of  home ; 
and  the  prodigals  felt  that  they  were  forgiven. 

That  night  Hubert  could  not  sleep  in  his  bed.  He 
saw  the  regeneration, —  the  changes  he  and  Maud  would 
bring  about.  Hiram  must  come  back :  that  was  one  of 
the  first  moves  ;  and  he  and  Mary  should  be  married,  and 
settle  in  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Then,  with 
Hiram's  help  and  his  own  knowledge,  they  would  enliven 
this  routine  of  country  life.  They  would  bring  in  books 
and  pictures  and  the  talk  of  the  world  through  the 
magazines.  Perhaps  they  could  start  a  library,  inducing 
the  neighbours  to  subscribe ;  and  Libbie  could  act  as 
librarian.  Then  they  would  start  up  a  debating  society 
in  the  school-house,  and  he  would  edit  a  manuscript  paper. 
Maud  and  he  could  furnish  the  music.  Perhaps  games 
and  even  dancing  could  be  introduced  if  the  Methodists 
could  only  be  persuaded.  They  might  build  a  hall  in 
time ;  and  the  people  from  Fort  Madison  would  come  out 
to  this  country  school  of  philosophy  and  poetry  of  which 


Qjiicksand  223 

he,  Hubert  Hinckley,  was  the  head.  The  castles  were 
building  all  night.  He  could  hardly  wait  for  the  morning 
when  he  could  tell  Maud,  and  begin  planning. 

He  was  up  for  an  early  walk  to  greet  the  rose  lights  of 
the  dawn,  and  a  song  began  to  ring  in  his  head.  He 
sketched  out  a  plan,  and  wrote  the  first  stanza  while  the 
swing  of  it  was  with  him.  How  glorious  a  thing  it  was  to 
live  here,  and  to  teach  the  old  neighbours  to  enjoy,  and 
see  the  beauties  of  their  living  1  Men  would  come  from 
the  cities  far  off  to  visit  the  writer  of  books,  who  was  as 
well  a  prophet  in  his  own  country.  And  the  river  glowed 
its  rose-coloured  warmth  of  rejoicing. 

Breakfast  was  a  damper  to  these  fires  of  enthusiasm. 
Everything  was  set  as  in  granite.  Sam  was  grumbling 
about  the  wagon  because  Al  Johnson  had  borrowed  it, 
and  then  run  it  a  week  without  greasing  the  wheels,  with 
the  result  of  a  spindle  quite  ruined. 

Maud  had  not  wakened  yet ;  and  Libbie,  though  pre 
tending  to  be  pleasant,  was  giving  a  general  understand 
ing  that  people  must  be  on  time  to  breakfast,  as  it  set  the 
work  back  all  day  to  wait. 

Mary  was  worrying,  too,  about  the  trouble  with  Al 
Johnson,  trying  to  find  an  explanation  for  his  neglect  or 
show  Sam  that  it  was  not  all  one  man's  fault. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  asked  Hubert  if  he  and  Maud  had  been 
comfortable,  and  then  began  talking  to  him  of  the  neigh 
bours  that  he  would  meet  the  coming  evening  at  prayer- 
meeting,  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  he  and  Maud 
would  attend. 

Maud  came  in  with  an  apology  amid  the  clatter  of 
knives  and  forks  and  the  smell  of  pork  and  potatoes. 
Only  Hubert  greeted  her  with  "  good-morning."  It  was 
not  the  custom  in  the  country ;  and  Mrs.  Hinckley,  while 
having  accepted  the  greeting  on  her  visit,  thought  Maud 


224  Q  u  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


might  now  get  used  to  their  ways.  Maud  sat  down  by 
Hubert;  and  Sam  passed  the  meat  and  potatoes,  Mary 
getting  up  to  get  some  coffee,  and  asking  Maud  if  she 
would  not  like  some  toast, —  a  luxury  that  set  Libbie 
frowning.  But  the  city  girl  would  not  take  any  extras. 
When  she  was  in  Rome,  she  would  do  as  the  Romans. 
She  laughed  a  little  here,  but  received  no  smile  in  return. 

(It  was  not  that  the  Hinckleys  were  surly.  It  was  merely 
not  their  custom  to  talk  much  at  breakfast:  they  were 
thinking  of  the  work  of  the  day.  Maud  sipped  her  coffee 
from  the  heavy,  white,  thick-lipped  cups,  and  tried  to  eat 
a  bit  of  pork  Hubert  had  given  her. 

"  What  a  fuss  he  makes  over  her  appetite  !  "  thought 
Libbie.  "  He  never  makes  any  bother  for  his  sisters  1 " 

Sam  shoved  back  from  the  table  as  soon  as  he  had 
finished  devouring,  and  asked  Mary  to  bring  him  his 
finger-stalls,  as  he  must  be  out  at  once  in  the  corn-field. 
The  husking  was  making  his  hands  bleed  worse  than 
usual  this  year.  The  soft  water  was  all  used  up  from  the 
cistern,  and  well-water  cut  into  them  like  lye.  Maud  got 
up  here,  and  helped  him  tie  on  the  bandages. 

"  How  they  will  all  love  her  1 "  thought  Hubert. 

"  See  how  she's  trying  to  work  herself  into  everybody's 
good  graces  !  "  thought  Libbie.  "  But  she  can't  use  her 
soft-soap  on  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Hinckley,  too,  was  uneasy.  "  Never  mind  Sam's 
hands,  Maud,"  she  said.  "You  will  get  used  to  such 
things  as  that  after  you  have  been  a  time  on  the  farm." 

Hubert  was  feeling  restless,  thinking  that  he  ought  to 
help  with  the  corn  husking,  as  Sam  was  working  alone, 
and  the  work  should  be  done  before  winter.  It  is  very 
hard  to  seem  idle  in  a  household  where  all  are  working, 
even  if  one  receives  pay  for  thinking;  and  Hubert's 
thoughts  brought  him  no  income. 


Quicksand  225 

Maud  began  clearing  away  the  dishes  from  the  table. 

"  No,  don't,"  said  Libbie,  sweetly,  taking  a  dish  from 
her.  '•  You'll  soil  your  pretty  new  apron." 

"  Why,  I  do  all  my  own  work  !  "  said  Maud,  laughing. 

"Libbie  and  I  are  used  to  doing  the  dishes,"  said 
Mary.  "  You  and  Hubert  will  be  busy  with  unpacking. 
Mother  will  show  you  the  house." 

This  Mrs.  Hinckley  proceeded  to  do,  enlarging  upon 
all  its  advantages,  and  showing  its  superiority  over  the 
houses  in  the  city.  Hubert  lingered  in  the  kitchen  to 
chat  with  his  sisters,  and  see  if  he  could  introduce  some 
of  his  schemes  into  the  conversation.  He  found,  how 
ever,  that  they  were  leading  him  in  the  conversation, 
which  concerned  the  prayer-meeting  of  the  evening  and 
a  backslider  who  might  return  to  religion,  as  he  had  been 
telling  Mr.  Johnson  he  was  going  to  do. 

Libbie  said  they  did  not  go  now  to  church  in  Fort 
Madison,  as  mother  was  ashamed  to  meet  Mr.  Simmons ; 
and  then  they  told  him  all  about  the  spanking  of  the 
preacher,  and  laughed  so  loud  they  feared  their  mother 
would  hear  and  question  them  afterward  about  it. 

Hubert  then  asked  about  Hiram,  when  he  would  re 
turn  and  what  address  he  had  left  for  writing.  Neither 
of  the  sisters  seemed  to  know  much  about  him.  He  was 
travelling,  looking  for  work,  probably.  He  did  not  leave 
any  address,  as  he  received  no  letters  at  all;  and  his 
papers  they  opened  and  read.  Hubert  could  see  that 
they  did  not  care  to  talk  about  Hiram,  that  there  was 
something  like  suspicion  between  them.  He  thought  he 
would  get  at  the  matter  later  when  he  could  see  Mary 
alone,  and  probably  remedy  the  affair  by  a  little  brotherly 
advice. 

Maud  came  back  then ;  and  he  proposed  they  set  about 
righting  their  room,  unpacking  the  trunks  for  the  first, 


226  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

and  then  putting  up  their  curtains  and  pictures,  much  as 
they  had  them  in  Chicago.  Libbie  and  Mary  were 
curious  to  see ;  and  so  all  five  spent  the  morning  in  the 
parlour  bedroom  and  the  parlour,  talking  about  every 
thing,  almost,  though  always  roaming  back  to  the  little 
affairs  of  the  neighbourhood  in  the  end.  It  seemed  that 
they  lived  in  a  narrow  rut  of  neighbourhood  gossip  and 
personality ;  and,  do  the  best  Hubert  could  to  drag  them 
out,  they  but  breathed  the  free  air  for  a  time  only, 
to  plunge  back  into  their  rut  and  talk  of  the  neighbours 
again,  telling  what  she  said  and  what  he  said,  as  if  it 
were  of  actual  importance.  Maud  liked  this  better  than 
Hubert :  it  was  more  on  a  level  with  her  thinking ;  and 
she  had  been  very  lonely  in  the  city.  Even  Hubert  liked 

Iit  better  than  he  should  after  he  had  heard  it  all  the  days 
of  a  week,  and  the  weeks  had  dragged  into  months. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  wanted  him  to  have  his  writing-table  in 
the  parlour  instead  of  in  the  bedroom  off  of  it.  She  felt 
that  she  could  have  more  of  his  company  in  the  parlour, 
while  the  bedroom  would  be  almost  forbidden.  But  to 
this  Hubert  would  not  yield.  For  his  part,  he  would  pre 
fer  a  room  upstairs,  if  it  had  not  been  they  were  already 
occupied.  No  one  offered  to  change  with  them.  So  the 
parlour  bedroom  only  was  left.  But  he  could  not  think 
of  occupying  the  parlour  itself,  as  that  must  be  kept  for 
company.  Mrs.  Hinckley  stretched  a  strip  of  carpet 
between  the  doors  so  they  would  not  wear  a  streak  in  the 
brilliant  flowers  of  the  Brussels.  At  present  Hubert 
could  have  his  whim  about  the  table,  but  in  the  end  she 
knew  she  would  win.  It  was  more  sensible,  and  she 
wanted  her  boy  to  be  comfortable. 

Dinner  went  something  like  breakfast,  but  with  freer 
talk  about  what  the  neighbours  were  doing,  as  they  had 
seen  them  pass  along  the  road,  or  the  men  at  work  in  the 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  227 

fields.  In  the  afternoon  Hubert  went  out  to  work  with 
Sam  at  the  husking ;  while  the  girls  would  take  Maud  for 
a  walk  and  introduce  her  to  the  Johnsons,  who,  they  ex 
plained,  did  not  amount  to  much,  but  were  their  nearest 
neighbours.  The  corn  husking  was  pleasant  for  an  hour ; 
and  Hubert  tried  to  do  as  much  as  Sam,  but  he  could 
not.  Then  the  tender  skin  on  his  hands  began  to  wear 
thin,  the  mud  of  the  fields  soiled  his  tan-coloured  shoes. 
Once  he  got  some  wheel  grease  on  his  trousers,  Sam 
having  put  it  all  over  the  hub,  in  order,  doubtless,  to 
make  up  for  the  dearth  in  the  week  at  the  Johnsons. 
The  talk  went  well.  Sam,  being  questioned,  also  told 
about  the  minister's  spanking;  but  he  said  it  was  very 
hasty  of  Hiram,  and  would  create  a  great  scandal  if  it 
ever  got  out.  He  complimented  Hubert  on  his  wife,  and 
asked  about  his  literary  prospects.  Sam's  idea  of  literary 
success  was  fetching  in  a  lot  of  money ;  and  on  this 
ground  Hubert  discussed  the  matter,  and  told  him  of  men 
who  had  got  rich,  though  they  had  to  wait  a  long  time  in 
the  beginning.  When  the  chill  of  the  evening  came  on, 
Sam  advised  Hubert  to  go  in  for  the  day,  and  get  rested 
up  before  prayer-meeting  time.  They  all  seemed  to  take 
it  for  granted  he  was  going,  even  Maud,  when  he  met  her 
at  the  house. 

"  I  want  to  see  what  it's  like,"  she  said,  coaxing,  "  and 
meet  all  the  people  they  talk  about.  Come  on  !  What's 
the  use  of  hurting  their  feelings,  especially  the  very  first 
day  ? " 

So  it  began  from  the  first  with  giving  way  from  a  stand 
Hubert  thought  he  had  taken.  He  persuaded  himself 
there  was  no  hypocrisy.  It  was  right  that  he  should 
give  way  in  small  things  to  others,  especially  to  his 
mother.  The  only  question  was  to  the  smallness  of  this 
matter.  If  he  went  once,  would  it  not  be  harder  to 


228  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

refuse  a  second  time  ?  If  he  put  off  telling  his  mother  he 
was  no  longer  a  believer  in  the  Atonement,  when  would 
he  set  the  time  for  confession,  as  evidence  of  belief 
gathered  around  him  ? 

He  went  to  the  prayer-meeting  with  the  family.  It  was 
a  good  time  to  see  the  neighbours.  But  in  the  experi 
ence  meeting,  when  the  deacon  called  on  our  young 
brother  from  the  city  to  offer  his  tribute  to  faith,  and 
Hubert  said  he  had  nothing  to  say,  a  shock  went  through 
the  congregation,  its  }erk  all  the  more  painful  for  the 
ensuing  quiet.  Then  the  deacon  called  on  another 
brother,  and  the  experiences  went  as  usually  on. 

But,  as  they  walked  home  in  the  moonlight,  Maud  felt 
as  if  the  day's  gain  were  lost.  Mrs.  Hinckley's  silence 
was  very  severe ;  and  Libbie,  Sam,  and  Mary  were  none 
of  them  naturally  talkative. 


XXXVII. 

IT  was  after  returning  to  the  farm  that  Hubert  began 
a  set  of  fairy  tales,  using  the  homely  life  of  the  coun 
try  as  his  background,  and  emphasizing  the  minuter 
beauties  of  nature,  such  as  children  see  and  enjoy.  But 
he  met  with  constant  interruption  from  the  family,  and 
often  gave  up  in  despair.  In  the  first  place  it  was  found 
that  there  was  no  place  for  a  stove  in  the  parlour  bed 
room,  and  the  door  must  always  be  open.  Then,  too,  his 
mother  insisted  on  keeping  the  windows  open  two  hours, 
in  order  that  the  room  might  air ;  and  afterward  the  bed 
must  be  made,  for  it  could  not  wait  over  till  after  dinner, 
that  was  too  slovenly  for  good  housekeeping.  Why  could 
not  Hubert  write  in  the  parlour  ?  No  one  would  think  of 
speaking  to  him.  It  was  a  mere  whim  that  he  should 
want  to  get  off  alone.  If  he  ever  hoped  to  succeed,  he  must 
break  himself  of  these  notions,  and  learn  to  work  wherever 
his  will  chose ;  and  then,  when  he  still  insisted  on  his  way, 
and  Maud  made  up  the  room  and  closed  the  windows 
early,  sitting  down  opposite  to  sew,  then  it  was  Maud 
that  was  called  out  by  some  one,  she  was  not  needed  for 
the  writing.  And  Hubert  could  not  tell  them  very  well 
that  he  could  write  better  when  she  was  sitting  cosily 
opposite  him, —  it  kept  his  mind  concentrated,  some  way, 
and  helped  him  to  forget  the  cleaning  and  cooking  with 
out.  Once,  in  his  desperation,  he  did  say  that  he  liked 
to  have  her  there,  no  matter  if  it  did  hurt  the  feelings  of 
his  mother  and  Libbie ;  but  then,  when  his  mother  re 
plied  that,  if  he  was  lonesome,  she  would  come  and  sit 
with  him,  for  Maud  should  be  more  active  for  one  so 
young,  how  could  he  tell  her  —  his  mother  —  that  she 
would  not  do  at  all,  not  because  he  did  not  love  her,  but 
because  —  simply  because  she  would  not  do  ? 


230  Qjjicksand 

Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Hinckley  did  come  occasionally  to 
sit  with  her  knitting  or  her  mending.  "  Run  away  and 
rest,  Maud,"  she  would  say.  "  Hubert  is  taking  all  the 
life  out  of  you,  keeping  you  cooped  up  here  in  the  cold. 
You  will  both  be  down  with  pneumonia  before  spring." 
And  then  she  would  sit  without  uttering  a  word,  but 
glancing  fondly  toward  Hubert,  anxious  if  his  pen  was 
not  going,  curious  if  it  was,  trying  to  make  out  from  his 
expression  what  he  might  be  writing  about,  but  careful 
not  to  annoy  him,  lest  genius  be  interrupted  in  its  burn 
ing.  When  Hubert  could  endure  this  scrutiny  no  longer, 
and  his  nerves  were  a  jangle  of  discord,  he  would  rest 
lessly  push  back  in  his  chair,  or  lay  his  distracted  head 
on  the  table.  That  was  a  signal  for  his  mother.  She 
could  not  bear  to  see  her  boy  suffer.  She  would  begin 
by  pulling  up  her  shawl  about  her  own  shoulders, 
not  daring  yet  to  interrupt  him,  but  wishing  to  throw 
out  a  silent  suggestion  that  the  bedroom  was  very  cold. 
Then,  when  he  broke  out  impetilously,  "  Go  into  the 
kitchen,  mother,  and  get  warm !  "  she  would  reply  with : 
"  Let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  hot  tea.  You  will  be 
catching  your  death  in  this  chill ;  though  why  you  can't 
sit  in  the  parlour  by  the  stove  I  can  never  make  out." 

In  the  end,  he  did  move  into  the  parlour.  The  resist 
ance  against  them  was  more  of  a  strain  than  the  worry  of 
their  presence  would  be.  How  he  hated  that  parlour! 
It  shut  out  his  inward  vision  as  the  noon  glares  out  the 
thoughtfulness  from  the  heavens.  The  brilliant  Brussels 
carpet  was  the  first  sin,  with  its  enormous  impossible 
nosegays,  arranged  like  trees  in  an  orchard,  on  a  ground 
work  of  screaming  blue.  Everything  in  that  carpet  was 
in  rows,  which  followed  in  every  direction,  up  and  down, 
back  and  across,  corner-wise,  in  all  four  directions,  with 
finer  rows  quartering  the  corners.  Then  the  wall-paper 


Qjuicksand  231 

took  up  this  mania  for  regularity,  with  a  pattern  of  red 
roses  with  blue  lilies  of  the  valley,  tied  with  a  bow  of 
yellow  ribbon,  that  pointed  in  four  other  directions.  The 
furniture  was  of  black  horsehair-cloth  upholstery,  bol 
stered  on  crooked  brown  legs,  and  bulging  from  tiny 
black  buttons  also  set  in  the  inevitable  checkers,  and 
adorned  with  geometric  tidies  that  were  crocheted  out  of 
staring  white  cotton.  The  lace  window-curtains  took  up 
the  horror,  looped  back  with  lavender  ribbon,  which  was 
secured  to  a  mirror-like  knob.  How  the  cold  lace  strained 
the  cold  landscape,  looking  up  the  dull  hill  to  the  road  1 
It  was  like  viewing  the  world  through  a  colander, —  a  col 
ander  some  devil  has  made,  with  patterns  of  flowers  from 
hell  or  the  gardens  of  orthodox  heaven.  There  were  pict 
ures  in  plenty  on  the  walls,  black  squares  cutting  holes 
from  the  wall  paper ;  and  there  were  embroidered  and 
sewed  things,  called  fancy  work,  fastened  to  every  possi 
ble  projection.  A  hanging  lamp  swung  from  the  ceiling. 
Hubert  envied  that  hanging  lamp.  The  room  had  a  shut- 
up  smell  in  spite  of  its  airings.  He  always  thought  of  the 
place  where  his  father's  body  was  laid  out,  across  in  front 
of  the  windows,  with  the  carpet  rows  converging  from  all 
directions.  There  was  a  black  and  fat-cheeked  cast-iron 
stove  that  gave  the  final  discomfort.  This  stove  was 
always  too  hot  or  too  cold, —  snorting  or  sulking,  as  case 
might  be,  on  its  round  piece  of  shining  white  zinc. 

In  this  room  Hubert  tried  to  write  of  the  ice  people, 
who  lived  in  the  palaces  of  the  brooks,  walking,  with  their 
tiny  heads  downward,  toward  the  roaring  and  rushing 
black  water  ;  of  the  beauty-loving  people,  who  worshipped 
the  brown  weeds  in  the  winter,  the  tall-plumed,  grace- 
bending  trees ;  or  of  the  larger  folk,  who  hunted  the 
beaver  and  otter,  and  the  old  tales  that  Hiram  had  told 
him.  Dear  old  Hiram  1  Where  was  he  ?  He  was  the 


232  Quicksand 

poet,  but  not  the  writer :  he  was  unlearned  more  nobly  than 
educated.  When  would  he  be  coming  back  ? 

At  one  time  Hubert  proposed  that  he  go  and  live  in 
Hiram's  house,  it  would  be  so  much  quieter  for  writing, 
and  he  and  Maud  could  be  more  together.  But  the  fam 
ily  offered  countless  objections, —  there  was  no  wood  up 
for  the  winter,  Hiram  might  be  back  any  day,  the  expense 
would  be  in  every  way  greater,  it  would  be  so  lonely  for 
Maud ;  and,  finally,  was  he  sick  of  his  old  home  already, 
tired  of  his  mother  and  sisters  ?  Did  they  not  do  every 
thing  to  keep  the  house  quiet,  worrying  and  fretting  about 
it  the  whole  time,  and  telling  all  the  neighbours  about  it  ? 
How  could  he  tell  them  of  a  silence  that  is  more  rasping 
on  the  hearing  than  shouts  ?  No,  he  had  not  the  courage 
to  leave  them,  even  for  the  quarter  of  a  mile. 

Then  this  running  away  seemed  a  cowardice.  It  was 
giving  up  his  dreams  of  regeneration,  of  cheering  and 
beautifying  the  whole  household.  He  tried  to  begin  on 
the  parlour, —  to  soften  it  and  make  it  more  habitable. 
He  began  with  the  hideous  kinds  of  sewing  that  they 
spoke  of  as  fancy  work.  Could  not  this  now,  for  exam 
ple,  be  dispensed  with  ?  he  mildly  suggested  to  Mary. 

"  That  ?  "  Mary  asked  in  surprise.  "  That  is  one  Libbie 
and  I  made  for  mother  last  Christmas.  Don't  you  think 
it  is  pretty,  Hubert  ?  We  had  to  send  away  for  the  card 
board  :  there  was  not  any  so  nice  in  Fort  Madison. 
Mother  says  there  is  no  cornucopia  so  pretty  as  this  in 
the  neighbourhood,  though  the  Adamses  have  made  one 
something  like  it.  We  were  going  to  make  one  for  Hiram, 
only  smaller ;  but  he  said  a  man  had  no  use  for  such 
things.  I  suppose  that 's  the  reason  you  don't  care  for  it, 
but  I  should  n't  say  anything  about  it  to  Libbie." 

So  it  was  with  each  suggestion  he  made.  Each  article 
was  an  expression  of  love,  like  the  black  and  white  memo- 


Qjiicksand  233 

rial  card,  framed,  for  his  father.  They  must  all  be  left 
for  what  they  signified.  Oh,  why,  groaned  Hubert  in 
solitude,  must  they  make  their  very  love  for  each  other  a 
reason  for  this  torture  of  beauty  ?  In  the  end,  he  gave 
up  the  parlour,  and  opened  his  eyes  only  in  the  bedroom, 
a  dainty  little  harmony  in  muslin  curtains,  that  the  girls 
said  was  pretty,  but  queer,  and,  they  suspected,  very  old- 
fashioned. 

Again,  this  moving  into  the  parlour  had  separated  hus 
band  and  wife.  If  Maud  was  in  the  room,  the  others 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  Hubert  was  not  writing 
then,  and  they  were  welcome  to  come  and  linger.  They 
all  seemed  jealous  and  fearful  that  some  word  should  pass 
they  did  not  hear.  "What  was  that,  Hubert?"  was  a 
phrase  constantly  on  Libbie's  lips.  It  was  not  so  much 
a  suspicion  that  the  two  were  talking  about  them :  it  was 
merely  that  their  lives  were  lonely  and  narrow,  and  any 
conversation  from  outside  was  refreshing,  like  water  in  a 
desert.  Hubert  felt  his  conscience  in  this,  and  was  never 
willing  to  snub  them  or  keep  them  away,  though  he  did 
long  for  the  old  confidential  living  together  that  new 
husband  and  wife  so  much  enjoy. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "  I  owe  it  to  them, —  to  mother  and 
Libbie  and  Mary.  They  kept  me  in  school  and  college. 
They  worked  and  denied  themselves  always,  till  they  are 
starved  in  consequence  of  it.  Now  I  should  pay  some 
thing  back.  Let  them  come  when  they  choose,  and  listen. 
Maud  and  I  can  go  back  to  the  city  in  the  summer." 

He  did  not  realise  that  this  separation  would  have  its 
effect ;  that  two  people  who  have  been  confidential,  and 
then  have  allowed  estrangement  to  come  in,  will  find  it 
harder  to  return  to  a  confidence  than  if  they  had  always 
lived  strangers  and  were  meeting  now  for  the  first  time. 
The  winter  was  steadily  advancing,  but  the  spring-time 
was  yet  far  away. 


XXXVIII. 

IT  is  something  that  religious  people  will  very  much 
resent, —  but,  if  they  will  carefully  think  it  over,  they 
may  admit  it  to  be  true, —  that  religion  does  more  to 
make  people  selfish  than  any  other  factor  except  selfish 
ness  in  the  complex  make-up  of  humanity.  By  religion  is 
meant  what  is  commonly  understood  by  that  term, —  not 
the  high  inner  consciousness  of  Deity  moving  and  ruling 
in  all  things,  but  that  outward  expression  of  piety  of 
the  common  orthodox  type;  the  belief  in  the  plan  of 
salvation,  and  that  the  believer  is  saved,  though  the 
hearer's  case  is  still  pending ;  that  ownership  of  heavenly 
stocks  that  makes  worldly  bondholders  humble  in  com 
parison. 

Hiram,  when  he  left  off  being  a  sailor  and  settled  in 
the  orthodox  country,  was  often  asked  by  the  members  of 
the  church  or  by  the  preachers  if  he  were  a  Christian. 
He  tried  to  respond  politely  at  first,  answering  that  it 
depended  on  the  definition  of  the  term,  whether  he  was  a 
Christian  or  not.  In  the  end,  finding  that  the  reply  only 
led  to  argument  and  consequent  ill-feeling,  and  that  he 
invariably  learned  that  a  Christian  was  one  who  believed 
exactly  and  entirely  as  his  questioner,  he  soon  hit  upon  an 
answer  that  brought  at  once  silence  forever,  if  not  good 
will.  He  could  trust  for  his  deeds  to  win  that  later.  So, 
when  the  serious-minded  inquisitor  now  came  to  him  with 
the  usual  impertinence,  "Are  you  a  Christian,  Mr.  Stubbs  ? " 
Hiram  would  shrink  quickly  from  his  robust  self,  as  if  a 
sudden  shame  had  seized  him,  and  then,  glancing  down 
his  dejected  length,  as  if  he  saw  himself  shrivelling,  he 
would  say  in  a  piteous  tone  :  "  What 's  getting  the  matter 
with  me  lately,  anyway  ?  The  other  day  a  man  asked  me 
if  I  was  a  Swede." 


Qjiicksand  235 

Who  can  tell  the  gloom  of  a  religious  household  where 
one  of  the  members  is  not  saved,  especially  where  all  love 
each  other?  A  presence  as  of  death  comes  upon  one 
whenever  a  believer  approaches.  "  You  may  die  to 
morrow,"  says  the  presence.  "  You  will  burn  in  fire  ever 
lasting,  and  I  shall  watch  you,  rejoicing,  from  heaven; 
that  is,  unless  you  think  my  way.  Sit  down  now,  and 
listen  to  my  argument.  The  Lord  gives  you  this  one 
more  chance." 

That  is  the  gloom  of  the  religious  presence.  Its 
absence  is  often  worse ;  for  it  suggests  weeping  and  yearn 
ing  for  the  lost  one,  the  obstinate,  who  will  not  believe. 
Oh,  would  he  but  listen  to  the  calling,  the  praying,  and 
,  the  dropping  of  tears  1  Oh,  how  the  praying  heart 
yearns  1  The  long  sleepless  nights  of  self-torment  1  In 
time  the  believers  become  selfish.  It  is  the  result  of  their 
self-elected  superiority.  It  turns  most  people's  heads  to 
live  in  intimate  relations  with  the  Almighty,  especially 
when  they  are  given  such  a  hand  in  the  management  of 
his  affairs. 

Hubert  felt  the  gloom  presence  inevitably  closing  on 
him.  It  was  crowding  the  joy  and  the  poetry  out  of  his 
heart.  He  could  not  more  than  feebly  resist  it ;  for  he, 
too,  also  loved  deeply,  and  had  not  enough  force  in  his 
make-up, —  at  least,  not  of  that  force  that  is  standing,  that 
is  calm  though  the  universe  waver.  He  knew  that  the 
toils  were  being  woven :  he  felt  them  tighten  every  day. 
His  mother  wanted  him  to  give  up  his  writing.  She  had 
become  convinced  that  he  would  not  succeed ;  and  she 
wanted  him  to  return  to  his  preaching  of  the  gospel,  as 
she  had  always  intended  he  should  do.  She  did  not  want 
him  to  do  this  because  it  was  her  desire  or  her  will :  she 
wanted  it  to  become  his  own  will,  as  it  was  already  the 
will  of  the  Lord. 


236  Quicksand 

The  first  step  was  to  get  him  to  undertake  the  teaching 
of  a  Sunday-school  class.  That  would  not  compromise 
any  one. 

"  It  is  not  generous  of  you,  Hubert,"  she  said  to  him 
one  day  in  argument,  "  when  you  are  so  well  versed  in 
the  Scriptures,  and  when  you  read  the  original  Greek  of 
the  Testament ;  it  is  not  right  that  you  are  unwilling  to 
share  with  others  all  that  you  have  learned  over  them. 
That,  too,  after  all  they  have  done  for  you, —  after  all  the 
Methodist  denomination  has  done  in  supporting  that 
excellent  college." 

"  I  am  so  rusty,  mother,  and  rny  stories  take  all  those 
things  out  of  my  head." 

"  But  '  those  things,'  as  you  call  them,  would  surely 
improve  your  stories,  too." 

"  Not  now,  while  I  am  young.  Let  men  of  experience 
speak  first.  Why,  mother,  I  hate  to  stand  up  and  teach 
men  in  a  Bible  class  who  are  older  than  myself,  and  who 
have  studied  the  Bible  all  their  lives." 

"  They  have  not  studied  it  with  your  advantages, 
Hubert." 

"  The  Bible  needs  only  to  be  read.  You  say  so  often, 
mother.  I  have  not  the  experience  of  living." 

"  There  is  only  one  experience  needed,  Hubert ;  and 
that  is,  the  experience  of  conversion  to  religion.  You 
have  that,  as  I  know.  You  wrote  me  of  it  in  your 
letter.  I  have  that  letter,  Hubert,  in  my  bureau.  Shall 
we  read  it  over  together?  For  myself,  I  know  it  by 
heart." 

"  I  remember  it  all,  mother.  One  doesn't  forget  expe 
riences  when  one  was  young." 

"  You  are  young  still,  Hubert." 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  changed  much  since  then." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  have  changed  in  your  faith  ?  " 


Qjiicksand  237 

"  I  have  faith  still,  mother,  but  not  in  the  same  way, 
perhaps." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Maud  has  been  turning  you  toward 
the  Presbyterians  ? " 

"  No,  we  never  talk  of  religion.  I  think  of  it  much 
less  than  I  used.  As  one  sees  more  of  the  world,  other 
things  attract  attention." 

"  Now  that  you  have  left  the  world  and  come  home,  it 
would  be  a  good  time  to  remember  them  again." 

"I  suppose"  —  and  Hubert  thought  the  conversation 
was  ended. 

' '  I  must  get  Maud  to  go  to  the  protracted  meetings  this 
winter,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley.  "  Her  mind  seems  ready 
and  open  to  reason." 

"  Are  they  going  to  have  protracted  meetings  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  we  are  going  to  have  them."  Mrs.  Hinck 
ley  emphasized  the  pronoun. 

"  Well,  I  must  look  over  my  work." 

"  But  promise  me,  Hubert,  that  you  will  take  the  class 
in  the  Sabbath  school." 

"  If  it  were  a  younger  class,  now,  of  boys." 

"  Very  well,  a  young  class  to  begin  on." 

And  so  another  step  was  taken,  and  Hubert  was  hating 
himself  for  it.  The  only  justification  he  could  give  was 
that  he  loved  his  mother  so  dearly,  and  could  not  bear  to 
wound  her  feelings. 

Libbie  was  sweeping  the  sitting-room.  Scratch, 
scratch,  went  the  broom,  rasping  as  if  on  his  bare 
nerves.  When  would  Hiram  come  back?  and  where 
was  Maud  ?  He  saw  so  little  of  her  lately ;  and,  when  he 
did  see  her,  he  was  irritable,  and  tdling  her  not  to  worry 
him.  Maud  was  the  only  one  he  could  speak  out  his 
mind  to.  So  she  must  suffer  for  the  sins  of  all  the 
others.  How  was  it  he  could  speak  to  Maud,  though  he 


238  Qjiicksand 

loved  her,  and  yet  could  not  speak  to  his  mother  or 
sisters  ?  Well,  Maud  had  not  known  him  when  he  was  a 
baby ;  and  who  in  this  world  can  speak  out  when  those 
who  have  heard  him  crying  as  a  child  stand  around,  and 
know  that  he  can  be  comforted  with  sugar  ? 


XXXIX. 

AND  Maud,  the  bright,  girlish  wife,  how  did  the 
farm  life  seem  to  her?  At  first  it  was  stiff  and 
cold ;  but  that,  she  felt,  would  thaw  with  acquaint 
ance  and  familiarity.  Then  came  the  restless  intimacy 
of  Libbie,  with  accompanying  jealous  fits  and  suspicions. 
Mary  was  sad,  and  avoided  her.  Mrs.  Hinckley  kept  the 
presence  of  one  ruling.  It  was  not  a  satisfactory  atmos 
phere.  If  Maud  came  upon  a  group  of  the  family  in 
surprise,  their  evident  embarrassment  and  confusion  told 
her  they  had  been  talking  about  her.  If  she  remained  to 
sit  the  morning  with  Hubert,  they  called  her  out  on  some 
pretence,  not  by  concerted  arrangement,  but  because  one 
of  them  would  see  her  for  something.  Whether  she  was 
with  Hubert  or  whether  she  was  with  them,  they  were  in 
no  way  satisfied.  The  house  was  not  large  enough  for 
her  to  be  alone.  There  was  only  one  thing  left, —  to  go 
out  into  the  chill,  wintry  air,  and  pretend  she  was  enjoy 
ing  a  walk.  There  was  one  other  outdoor  alternative: 
she  could  go  to  the  barn  and  talk  with  Sam  or  stop  to 
chat  with  him  in  the  field. 

Her  big,  gloomy,  black-bearded  brother-in-law  had  at 
tracted  her  attention  from  the  first.  It  was  Maud's  way 
to  think  more  of  men.  They  petted  her  and  said  pretty 
things  to  her,  and  teased  her  and  made  her  pout.  Then 
Sam  was  handsome  in  his  retired  melancholy.  He  had 
blue  eyes  under  the  bushy  black  eyebrows ;  and  a  re 
served,  steady  voice  came  from  his  beard-shadowed 
mouth. 

As  for  Sam  himself,  he  had  liked  Maud  always  since 
she  tied  up  his  swollen  fingers  on  the  first  morning  after 
her  arrival.  There  was  a  tender  solicitude  in  her  eyes,  a 
drawing  of  the  pain  muscles  at  the  corners  of  the  eyelids 


240  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

that  he  had  never  seen  in  his  sisters  when  they  were 
offering  him  sympathy.  Then  Maud  talked  to  him  freely 
from  her  mind,  more  freely  than  she  dared  do  to  Hubert. 

"  Why  do  you  work,  work,  work  all  your  life,  and  never 
stop  to  think  what  you  are  living  for  ?  "  she  asked  from 
her  bench  one  day,  where  she  was  watching  him  husk 
corn  in  the  barn. 

Sam  had  never  heard  such  a  question  before,  but  he 
did  not  laugh  at  Maud  for  her  queerness. 

"  We  have  to  work  for  our  living,"  he  answered. 

"  But  you  make  more  than  a  living.  Your  mother  told 
me  you  had  money  invested  in  Western  mortgages." 

"  Yes,  a  little ;  but  that  doesn't  bring  in  much  now. 
Times  are  hard  out  there  in  Kansas." 

"  But  you  have  money  in  the  bank,  and  your  expenses 
are  very  small  here.  Libbie  told  me  that  she  and  Mary 
bought  all  the  groceries  and  their  own  clothes  from  the 
money  for  their  butter  and  eggs." 

"  Yes,  Libbie  is  thrifty  at  that." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  to  raise  so  much  grain  for, 
and  so  many  hogs  and  cattle  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  get  the  forty  joining  on  the  south,  but 
Johnson  asks  a  good  price  for  it." 

"  You've  got  more  land  now  than  you  can  work." 

"  I  might  hire  a  hand." 

"  Just  another  man  for  your  sisters  to  work  for." 

"  A  hand  is  a  nuisance.  You're  always  wondering  if 
they  are  loafing  whenever  you  go  away.  Hiram  is  good 
help  when  he's  here.  He  and  I  exchange  work." 

"  Well,  but  what  do  you  want  that  forty  acres  for  ?  "  she 
persisted. 

"  Oh,  it  would  make  good  meadow  land." 

"  You  have  hay  enough  now  for  your  stock." 

"  Yes,  but  then  I  could  keep  more  stock." 


Qj 


u  ic  k  sand  241 


"  To  sell,  and  buy  more  land,  I  suppose." 

"  I  need  the  stock  to  eat  up  my  grain.  There  's  no 
money  in  selling  grain." 

"  If  you  didn't  have  so  much  land,  you  wouldn't  have 
so  much  grain." 

"  It  is  a  sort  of  circle,"  laughed  Sam ;  "  but  what  is  a 
fellow  to  do  ?  " 

"  Enjoy  life,"  said  Maud,  smiling  brightly. 

"  What  have  I  to  enjoy  except  my  home  with  my  mother 
and  sisters  ? " 

1 '  Go  off  on  a  trip.     See  the  world." 

"I'm  afraid  I  would  find  it  pretty  lonesome.  Though 
I  should  have  liked  to  go  off  with  Hiram.  But,  then,  I 
can't  think  of  leaving  home  over  night :  the  women  would 
go  into  a  fit." 

"  You  might  get  married,"  she  said  archly. 

"  Oh,  mother  and  the  girls  would  never  endure  my 
bringing  a  wife  home,"  he  said  with  confusion. 

"  Can't  they  endure  me  ? "  she  questioned  with  mis 
chief. 

Sam  shifted  uneasily,  "With  Hubert  it's  different," 
he  said.  "  He's  been  away  to  college,  and  they  don't 
expect  him  to  keep  the  farm  going." 

"  Couldn't  you  build  a  house  near  by,  and  run  the  farm 
just  the  same  ?  "  she  questioned. 

"Mother  likes  to  have  us  together,"  he  answered, 
"  especially  since  father  died." 

"  Is  —  is  there  some  one  you'd  like  to  —  you'd  like  to 
marry  ?  "  faltered  Maud. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  not  now.  I'm  too  cranky  now  to  ever 
get  on  with  a  woman.  I  'm  a  crusty  old  bachelor." 

"  Was  there  ever  anybody  ?  "  pursued  Maud,  astonished 
at  her  own  temerity. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  ago.     I  never  speak  of  it,"  said 


242  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

Sam,  making  a  great  noise  with  kicking  the  husks  into  a 
corner. 

"  Aren't  you  cold  ?  "  he  asked  tenderly. 

"  Not  much.  I'll  get  up  and  dance  around.  Or  I 
might  help  you  with  the  husking." 

"It  would  only  scratch  your  hands,"  he  objected. 
"  This  is  a  half-load  that  I  snapped  for  the  hogs,  and  it 
looked  so  good  I  thought  I'd  shell  some." 

"  I  will  feed  the  sheller  for  you." 

"  Hiram  and  I  used  to  work  together  at  shelling.  He 
would  make  the  old  machine  hum.  Hiram  is  always  in 
for  his  laughing." 

"  You  don't  laugh  very  much." 

"  I  like  to  see  you  laugh,  though,"  he  said  wistfully. 

"  Then  we'll  laugh  with  the  sheller.  You  make  it  hum, 
and  I'll  throw  in  the  ears  of  corn." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  into  the  house  and  get  warm  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  in  the  way  in  there.  Hubert's  cross,  and 
the  rest  are  busy." 

Sam  did  not  make  any  reply. 

"  Am  I  in  your  way  ?  "  she  faltered,  to  tease  him. 

"  Why,  not  a  bit.  I  like  you."  Then  he  blushed,  and 
retracted.  "  I  like  you  to  enjoy  yourself,"  he  said. 

They  began  with  the  corn-sheller  merrily,  Sam  grinding 
at  the  heavy  iron  wheel,  and  Maud  feeding  the  corn  in  as 
fast  as  she  could  to  see  the  strong  muscles  stiffen  and  to 
laugh  if  she  could  bring  him  to  a  stand-still.  They  were 
surprised  when  Libbie  came  to  call  them  to  dinner.  How 
short  the  morning  had  been  1 

"  I  will  come  and  help  you  often  if  you  will  let  me," 
said  Maud.  "It's  so  much  nicer  than  poking  in  the 
house." 


XL. 

ONE  sunny  day  just  before  Christmas  Sam  found 
Maud  down  by  the  creek.  He  was  coming  from 
repairing  the  pasture  fence.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

"  Taking  a  walk  ?  "  he  called  cheerfully. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maud,  forcing  a  smile. 

He  noticed  that  her  face  was  blotched  with  color  and 
her  eyes  were  swollen  around  the  lids. 

"  Did  you  hurt  yourself  somehow  ?  "  he  asked  kindly. 

"  No  —  no  —  no  1  "  said  Maud,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

"  Now  has  Hubert  been  cross  again  ?  "  angrily. 

"A  —  a  little,"  she  faltered. 

"  He  ought  to  be  thrashed  !  "  said  Sam,  grimly. 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  mean  it  exactly ;  that  is,  he  is  nervous 
with  his  book.  It  isn't  that  altogether"  —  -  Here  she 
stopped,  as  if  in  confusion. 

"  Has  mother  or  Libbie  been  pestering  you  again  ?  " 

"  No ;  that  is, —  no.  It  is  only  that  Christmas  is 
coming,  and  I  am  so  awfully  lonesome."  She  kept  her 
face  away  from  him,  but  her  shoulders  were  shaking  with 
sobbing. 

Sam  was  used  to  his  sisters'  crying,  but  this  affected 
him  strangely.  He  was  embarrassed,  and  yet  wanted  to 
comfort.  They  were  passing  by  Hiram's  vacant  house. 

"  Come  in  here,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "  You  mustn't  go 
back  home  this  way.  There's  a  fire  in  the  fireplace.  I 
built  it  to-day  just  to  get  some  of  the  frost  out  of  the 
place.  Come  in  here  1 "  His  voice  was  trembling  with 
sympathy. 

He  took  a  key  from  his  pocket  and  unlocked  the 
kitchen  door,  and  thence  pushed  her  into  the  log  house, 
that  was  standing  behind  the  new  part  which  had  been 


244  u  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


built  for  the  coming  of  Mary.  There  were  glowing  coals 
in  the  fireplace.  Sam  threw  on  some  light  wood,  and 
fanned  it  with  his  cap  till  it  burst  into  a  leaping  flame. 
Then  he  put  on  some  heavier  wood,  and  drew  up  an  arm 
chair  in  front  of  it.  Hiram  had  things  arranged  for 
a  homely  land  of  comfort. 

Maud,  who  had  been  recovering  from  her  sobbing, 
now  sat  down  dejectedly  in  the  chair.  "  How  warm  and 
pleasant  it  is  here  !  "  she  said.  "  What  a  baby  you  must 
think  I  am  !  " 

"  All  women  are,  I  suppose,"  said  Sam,  kindly.  Why 
was  it  that  he  was  looking  to  see  if  the  window  shutters 
were  closed  ?  The  room  was  in  shadow,  except  for  the 
firelight. 

"  Are  you  better  now  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  time,  when 
the  fire  was  making  them  grateful. 

"  Yes.  It  was  partly  the  cold,  I  suppose.  The  week 
has  been  so  dreary  till  to-day,  with  the  snow  shutting 
everything  in." 

"  Why  don't  you  and  Hubert  go  to  Des  Moines  to 
spend  Christmas  ?  "  he  asked.  "  It  would  liven  you  up  a 
bit.  You  have  plenty  of  money." 

"  It  doesn't  come  due  till  January." 

"  You  could  borrow  enough  to  go  on." 

"  Mother  wouldn't  let  Hubert  go  away  for  Christmas." 

"  Afterward,  then." 

"  Then  the  protracted  meetings  commence." 

"  You  might  go  alone." 

"  That  would  seem  queer  to  my  friends,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  A  little  queer,  perhaps,"  he  answered  doubtfully. 

"  You  seem  awfully  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me,  some 
way,"  laughed  Maud. 

"  It's  because  you  need  a  change.  You  are  not  used 
to  country  life.  No,  we  should  miss  you  enough." 


Qjuicksand  245 

"  It  ought  not  to  be  so  lonely,"  complained  Maud. 

"  We  are  different  from  you,  and  so  much  older." 

"  You  don't  seem  old  to  me." 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I'm  nearly  forty  years  old,"  he  said  thought 
fully. 

"  But  your  hair  is  black,  and  there's  not  a  gray  mark  in 
your  beard." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is,  here, —  close  to  my  ear."  He  tipped 
down  his  head  to  show  her.  Her  ringers  touched  his 
rough  cheek. 

"  You  are  handsomer  than  Hubert,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"  You  ought  to  have  had  an  education,  too,  instead  of  al 
ways  working  on  the  farm." 

A  wave  of  pathos  swept  over  him.  He  had  lived  so 
many  years  in  silence,  and  now  she  was  making  his  hear 
speak.  He  had  drudged  alone  all  his  life.  His  pity  for 
himself  was  overflowing. 

"I've  been  all  right,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  You  mustn't 
worry  about  me."  But  he  reached  out  his  hand  and 
clasped  hers.  His  chair  was  not  far  from  her  own. 
How  the  clinging  of  soft  fingers  made  him  thrill !  Why 
did  Hubert  have  all  the  education  and  the  idleness,  and 
the  joys  of  a  wife,  besides?  Hubert  who —  And  his 
jealousy  flared  ominously. 

"  You  seem  to  me  more  lonesome  than  I  am,"  she  said 
to  him  after  the  quiet. 

"  I  am  old,  and  can  stand  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  me  old.  In  some  ways  you  are 
very  young.  Like  a  man  who  never  has  lived."  Whence 
came  her  woman's  intuition  ? 

"  A  man  doesn't  live  who  isn't  married,"  answered 
Sam. 

"  Did  something  keep  you  from  marrying  the  girl  that 
you  loved  ? " 


246  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  Yes." 

"  Was  it  your  mother  ?  " 

"  It  was  many  things.  It  was  in  New  Hampshire. 
You  must  not  ask  me  about  it." 

"  Did  she  marry  some  one  else  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard.     Probably  not." 

"  Let  me  write  to  her,"  pleaded  Maud. 

"  No,  no  1     It's  all  past.     Maybe  she's  dead." 

"  I  feel  so  sorry  for  you  1  I  like  you  so  much  1 "  she 
said  to  him.  His  hand  was  again  clutching  hers. 

"  You  must  not  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "  You  must  be 
happy  with  Hubert." 

"  Oh,  we  can't  be  happy  any  more ! "  she  said  petu 
lantly.  "  Some  one  is  always  between  us.  We  only  have 
time  to  quarrel,  and  never  time  to  make  up." 

"  But  you  care  for  him  still,  don't  you,  Maud  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  But,  after  you've  loved  people 
enough,  they  seem  only  to  worry  you  when  you  love 
them." 

"I'm  glad  no  woman  loves  me ;  for  I  could  never  stand 
it  when  she  had  loved  me  enough,  and  then  it  began  to 
worry  her." 

"  You  are  different  from  Hubert.  You  are  of  a  jealous 
disposition." 

"  Isn't  he  jealous  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  thinking  all  the  time  of  his  stories,  and 
everybody  to  him  is  only  literary  material." 

"  Are  you  only  literary  material  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hardly  that,"  she  said,  laughing  restlessly.  "  But 
you  know  he's  visiting  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  natu 
rally  has  little  time  now  for  me." 

"  How  soft  and  silky  your  hair  is  1  "  he  said  to  her 
after  a  silence. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  pretty  ?  "  she  asked. 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  247 

"  The  prettiest  I  ever  saw,"  he  answered.  "  Hubert 
has  very  good  taste." 

"  He  learned  to  judge  from  seeing  his  brother,"  she 
said. 

"  I'm  not  good-looking,"  he  objected.  "  Any  one  will 
tell  you  I  am  ugly." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  laughed.  "  Your  hair  is  crisp 
like  drawn  metal,  and  your  eyes  are  a  beautiful  blue." 

Abruptly  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her, —  kissed  her  pas 
sionately  on  the  delicate  lips. 

She  started  up  in  alarm. 

"It  is  growing  dark.  We  must  be  going.  Oh,  you 
shouldn't  do  that  1 " 

"  I  forgot  myself,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  Yes,  let  us  be 
going  at  once  :  it  must  be  growing  quite  dark." 

While  she  was  arranging  her  wraps,  he  was  covering 
the  fire  for  safety. 

"  Why,  it 's  dark !  "  she  called,  as  if  frightened. 

But  it  was  only  because  the  window  shutters  were 
closed  ;  for,  when  Sam  opened  the  door,  the  full  western 
sun  flashed  upon  them.  It  seemed  like  a  blow  in  their 
faces. 


XLI. 

THERE  was  no  more  of  gay  helping  in  the  barn 
for  Maud  after  that  day  of  the  walk  and  the  stop 
ping  in  Hiram's  house.  It  was  not  because  she 
was  not  willing.  She  felt  very  sorry  for  Sam  with  this 
new  reason  for  loneliness  come  on  him.  She  was  willing 
to  show  her  forgiveness.  Indeed,  what  had  she  to  for 
give  ?  Was  he  not  her  husband's  brother  ?  But  Sam  was 
the  one  to  keep  aloof.  He  never  spoke  to  her  now  in  the 
same  way  that  he  had  done.  He  scarcely  spoke  at  all 
any  more  ;  but  sometimes,  when  he  was  sitting  near  her, 
she  would  hear  him  draw  a  deep  sigh,  as  though  pain  were 
rooted  in  his  soul.  Life  was  more  dreary  than  ever  now 
on  the  farm,  since  this  one  relief  was  taken  from  her. 
Sam  was  kind  to  her  as  before  ;  but,  if  she  came  upon  him 
when  he  was  alone,  he  immediately  began  making  excuses 
to  get  away,  giving  minutest  explanations,  in  a  stumbling 
and  breathless  manner.  The  Christmas  season  passed  in 
this  way,  and  the  protracted  meetings  began. 

Mrs.  Hinckley's  health  was  not  strong  this  winter,  and 
she  could  not  attend  the  meetings  every  night.  Libbie 
and  Mary  could  not  always  go,  either.  In  truth,  they  did 
not  wish  to  meet  Mr.  Simmons,  who  conducted  the  meet 
ings  as  usual,  and  came  almost  every  night.  But  Maud 
must  go  regularly  if  she  would.  Maud  had  never  been 
truly  converted,  though  she  was  a  member  of  an  orthodox 
church.  Hubert  should  go,  too  ;  but  Hubert  was  strangely 
rebellious.  Then  Maud  should  go,  with  Sam  as  an  escort. 
The  family  must  be  represented. 

As  for  Maud,  she  was  glad  to  get  out, —  glad  of  the  walk 
and  the  glimpse  of  new  faces.  The  excitement  of  the 
revival  amused  her,  and  she  never  thought  of  the  religion 
so  far  as  applying  it  to  herself  was  concerned.  Last  of 


QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  249 

all,  she  liked  to  walk  with  Sam  back  and  forth  in  the 
darkness  and  cold  frost,  her  hand  resting  timidly  on  his 
arm,  which  he  never  openly  offered  her,  as  it  was  not  the 
custom  in  the  country, —  at  least,  between  members  of  the 
same  family.  She  knew  now  that  Sam  loved  her,  and  in  • 
a  way  she  liked  him  better  for  his  control ;  and  liking  him 
better  for  that  made  her  want  him  to  break  it. 

One  night  they  had  started  as  usual,  Sam  having  little 
to  speak  of. 

They  came  to  pass  Hiram's  house.  "  I  was  in  there 
to-day,"  said  Sam,  "  and  had  a  big  fire  in  the  fireplace." 

"  It  is  a  nice  house,"  she  answered  him  wistfully.  "  I 
wonder  if  the  fire  is  burning  yet? " 

Did  he  feel  a  pressure  on  his  arm  or  did  he  stop  of  his 
own  accord  ?  They  were  standing  still  in  the  snow. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  go  in  and  see  if  I  left  the  fire 
safely  covered,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "  I  didn't  pay 
much  attention  to  it  when  I  left." 

"  Have  you  the  key  in  your  pocket  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  you  had  changed  your  clothes."  Her 
voice  was  mellow  and  rippling. 

"  I  changed  the  key,  too,  into  my  other  pocket." 

"Oh!" 

"  Will  you  go  in  with  me  or  wait  here  ?  "  He  was  de 
termined  to  give  her  a  chance,  and  he  prayed  to  God  she 
would  accept  it. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  she  said  faintly.  "  It  is  cold 
standing  here  in  the  snow." 

They  looked  backward  to  see  that  no  one  was  coming. 
Then  they  turned  into  the  beaten  path,  and  entered  the 
house  together. 

Maud  sat  down  in  the  chair,  while  Sam  stooped  to  ex 
amine  the  fire.  He  raked  up  the  glowing  coals,  and 


250  Qjjicksand 

then,  instead  of  covering  them  with  ashes,  he  threw  on 
some  of  the  lighter  wood ;  and  the  flames  leaped  up  and 
flashed  in  their  faces. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time  for  the  meeting,"  he  said 
breathlessly.  "  We  might  as  well  rest  a  moment." 

"  Can  any  one  see  in  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  soul :  the  window  shutters  are  tight."  But  he 
stepped  outside,  to  make  sure  whether  any  of  the  light 
could  get  through.  Why  should  he  be  doing  that? 
he  asked  himself.  No,  not  a  ray  could  creep  out.  The 
house  seemed  quite  empty  in  the  starlight.  How  like 
eyes  the  stars  looked  down  !  He  returned  to  the  house, 
locking  the  door  behind  him.  Maud  was  still  sitting  in 
the  chair,  gazing  at  the  flames  with  dreamy  eyes. 

"  Are  your  feet  cold  ?  "  he  asked  almost  harshly. 

"  A  little  cold,  not  much,"  she  answered. 

He  knelt  down  and  removed  her  overshoes  from  her 
dainty  feet, —  an  attention  he  had  never  given  before. 

"  They  feel  cold,"  he  said,  clasping  her  toe  with  his 
hand. 

"  Your  hands  warm  them,"  she  replied,  still  dreamily. 

He  rose  suddenly,  and  took  off  his  own  overshoes  and 
coat.  He  took  off  his  cloth  cap,  too,  and  stowed  the 
mittens  in  the  overcoat  pockets. 

The  woman  offered  no  objection.  When  he  came  and 
stood  before  her,  she  looked  up  from  dewy,  bright  eyes. 
"  Aren't  you  going  to  the  meeting,  then  ?  "  she  asked 
him. 

For  return  he  stooped  over  her,  and  took  off  her  hood 
and  her  mittens.  She  half  rose  to  help  him  with  the 
cloak.  Then  he  threw  some  wood  on  the  fire,  and  drew 
a  chair  up  beside  her, —  all  this  without  speaking  a  word. 

Then  she  offered  her  first  objection.  "We  ought  to 
be  going,"  she  ventured. 


Qjuicksand  251 

"  It  is  too  late,"  he  replied  quite  solemnly,  his  eyes 
fixed  steadily  upon  her. 

"  I  don't  care.  I'm  tired  of  the  meetings.  It's  nicer  to 
be  sitting  here  with  you." 

He  gave  no  reply,  but  his  burning  gaze  made  her 
nervous. 

"  I  want  to  ask  your  forgiveness,  Sam,  for  hurting  you 
that  day.  It  was  my  fault  that  you  acted  as  you  did." 

"  It  was  the  fault  of  neither  of  us,"  he  replied.  "  It 
was  fate  or  else  it  was  the  devil." 

"  But  you  acted  as  if  you  regretted,"  she  objected,  in  a 
pouting  of  doubt. 

"  I  did  regret  then,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  do  not  regret 
any  more."  His  voice  rang  true  like  rich  music.  There 
was  a  sense  as  of  freedom  upon  him, —  freedom  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  He  had  lived  nearly  forty  years. 

"  How  proud  you  look  !  "  she  said  fondly.  "  I  have 
never  seen  you  so  noble  before.  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  of  that  girl  that  you  loved  some  twenty  years  ago 
in  New  Hampshire." 

He  drew  up  a  cushion  on  the  floor, —  it  was  one  Hiram 
had  brought  from  Calcutta, —  and  seated  himself  at  her 
feet.  "  I  will  tell  you  everything,"  he  said, — "  some 
things  you  will  think  very  strange, —  only  you  must  let  me 
hold  your  hand." 

She  stretched  her  soft  hand  out  to  him,  allowing  it  to 
be  encased  in  his  own.  His  hands  were  calloused  and 
seamed  with  work  and  weather,  but  she  liked  them  the 
better  for  that. 

Then  he  began  the  story  of  his  life  when  he  was  a  boy, 
together  with  Hiram,  playing  in  the  New  Hampshire  woods, 
and  his  sister  Adelaide  was  alive.  He  spoke  of  his  boy 
hood  a  time,  and  his  voice  was  eloquent  and  sweet.  He 
had  never  talked  so  before  in  his  life.  Then  his  voice 


252  Qjiicksand 

softened  still  more.  He  was  telling  of  Lily  McDonald. 
"We  were  to  have  been  married,"  he  said;  and  the 
memory  he  held  made  Maud  lonely.  She  asked  him  to 
go  on  with  his  story. 

Then  he  spoke  of  the  family  shame  and  the  silence  to 
all  of  their  neighbours.  But  everybody  in  the  village 
knew,  for  Adelaide  had  to  be  buried.  He  yearned  to  see 
Lily  McDonald,  but  his  shame  would  not  let  him  face  her. 
Then,  when  they  decided  to  go  to  Iowa,  and  take  Hubert 
with  them  as  his  brother,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  speak 
to  Lily  and  let  her  choose  between  going  and  staying. 
He  spoke  to  his  mother  about  it,  and  she  told  him  in  a 
frenzy  it  was  impossible.  Lily  would  form  a  connection 
between  their  new  life  and  their  past.  Her  people  would 
come  to  see  her,  the  secret  would  escape  in  their  talk. 
No,  the  family  must  go  quite  alone.  Love  would  keep 
them  all  silent.  Besides,  Libbie  and  Mary  were  too 
young  for  any  knowledge.  The  secret  would  rest  among 
three.  They  would  cut  off  all  communication  with  the 
past,  and  start  a  new  life  in  the  West.  But  he  must  not 
take  a  stranger  with  him,  even  though  she  went  as  his 
wife.  Women  will  tell :  they  can't  help  it ;  and  the  secret 
must  be  for  three  alone,  for  the  sake  of  his  mother,  for 
the  sake  of  his  sisters  who  must  grow  up  in  honour  and 
ignorance,  and  for  the  peace  of  his  father's  declining 
years.  No  one  thought  of  Hubert  then.  It  was  after 
ward  they  came  to  love  him.  So  he  did  not  see  Lily 
McDonald.  He  had  never  heard  from  her  since.  Hiram 
had  joined  them  ten  years  later.  Perhaps  one  reason 
that  his  mother  disliked  Hiram  was  her  fear  that  he 
might  suspect  something. 

Then  the  man  went  on  to  tell  the  frightened  woman  the 
rest  of  his  lonely  life.  There  was  not  much  to  tell  now, 
—  just  work  and  drag  out  the  years.  Hubert  grew  up, 


Qjiicksand  253 

and  the  women  grew  to  love  him ;  but  in  his  heart  Sam 
always  disliked  him.  He  had  taken  his  youth  from  him, 
and  his  love,  perhaps  even  his  education.  Hubert  had 
everything,  he  nothing.  How  could  he  like  him  for  that  ? 
Of  course,  the  boy  was  blameless  ;  but  blamelessness  does 
not  make  us  love  people.  Hubert  had  his  education  and 
his  pleasure.  Sam  had  to  work,  and  give  them  to  him. 
Now  something  dearer  had  come  to  him ;  but  that  was 
Hubert's,  too. 

Maud  was  crying  now  softly.  It  seemed,  too,  that 
Hubert  had  wronged  her ;  and  unreasonably  she  resented 
his  marriage  to  her.  What  right  had  Hubert  to  any 
thing,  since  his  whole  life  was  a  horrible  lie  ?  That  he 
did  not  know  it  was  a  lie  only  made  the  matter  worse. 
His  fault  was  he  should  have  known  it,  and  did  not. 

Then  her  sympathy  flowed  for  the  man  who  was  talk 
ing  to  her, —  the  mournful,  dark  soul  that  was  blighted,  the 
man  she  loved  at  her  feet.  He,  too,  had  been  wronged 
by  this  Hubert, —  this  Hubert  who  was  guilty  because  he 
was  innocent.  The  strong  man  was  grieving  now :  a  pas 
sion  of  self  sorrow  was  on  him.  The  girl  bended  her 
golden  head  down  to  him,  and  kissed  him  on  the  flushed 
forehead. 

It  only  enraged  his  passion.  "I  love  you!  I  love 
you  1 "  he  pleaded.  "  I  love  you,  and  I  cannot  give  you 
up.  A  second  denial  would  drive  me  to  madness  ?  " 

He  was  mad  now,  she  half  thought,  as  he  crouched 
there,  fawning  on  her  knees.  She  had  never  seen  man  in 
such  passion.  His  face  was  contorted  with  struggling, 
his  forehead  was  wet  as  in  harvest.  His  great  hands 
were  caressing  her  own.  It  seemed  that  his  fire  would 
consume  her.  Was  this,  then,  love?  she  asked.  This 
was  so  different  from  Hubert's.  Hubert's  love  was  puny 
beside  it.  Hubert  was  a  boy  who  had  wronged  her. 


254  Qjuicksand 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  they  left  the  house  vacant, 
having  carefully  covered  the  fire  and  removed  all  traces 
of  their  stopping.  The  stars  were  calm  as  they  had 
been,  shining  points  from  the  blue-black  of  heaven. 

"  We  must  not  come  here  again,"  said  Sam,  huskily. 
"  I  lose  all  control  of  myself." 

Maud  gave  back  no  reply;  but  secretly  in  her  heart 
she  knew,  as  he  knew,  that  they  would  often  come  now 
again. 


XLII. 

HUBERT  had  completed  his  volume  of  stories, 
carefully  copied  them  for  the  publishers,  and  sent 
them  out,  seeking  acceptance.  In  a  gloomy  way 
they  seemed  almost  like  himself  when  he  was  seeking 
work  in  Chicago.  He  did  not  know  where  to  go,  he  did 
not  know  how  to  ask;  but  there  is  one  advantage  in 
sending  a  book, —  the  distance  softens  the  chagrin  of  re 
fusal,  and  the  time  gives  longer  chance  for  hoping.  He 
watched  the  mails  and  counted  off  the  days  for  three 
months.  It  seemed  they  must  be  considering  seriously,  it 
took  so  very  long  to  give  answer.  His  other  stories  and 
poems  had  all  been  gathered  in  now,  and  laid  away  with 
the  past.  This  new  volume  was  his  only  hope.  He  would 
not  even  think  of  another  until  this  had  come  into  print. 
The  very  thought  of  his  own  works  in  print  made  his 
heart  fly  a-quivering. 

He  had  not  read  these  stories  to  Maud.  He  told  her 
he  was  going  to  surprise  her.  There  were  various 
reasons  for  this,  the  chief  one  being  that  they  were  never 
left  long  enough  together.  Then,  again,  he  knew,  if  he 
read  them  to  Maud,  his  mother  and  Libbie  and  Mary 
would  feel  that  they  had  been  slighted ;  and  he  could  not 
bare  his  heart-poems  to  them  all, —  not  until  print  gave 
them  sanction,  and  great  people  were  talking  about  him. 
Libbie  and  Mary  would  speak  of  them  to  him  when  he 
was  nervous.  Even  their  praise  and  sympathy  would 
nettle  him.  They  had  not  the  artistic  sense  of  silence  as 
being  the  highest  appreciation.  Moreover,  his  mother 
would  worry  because  the  stories  did  not  show  religion ; 
and  she  would  be  seeking  always  for  the  moral,  and  read 
ing  her  son  into  them.  Do  you  believe  this  ?  do  you  not  be 
lieve  that  ?  Why,  he  had  written  his  visions  because  they 


256  Qjjicksand 

were  beautiful ;  and  his  mother  did  not  know  about  the 
beautiful,  unless  it  was  something  probably  wicked,  ex 
cept  when  applied  to  heaven.  She  knew  about  the  good 
and  the  loyal:  loyalty  to  her  own  was  her  strength. 
Poor  Maud !  It  was  hard  to  keep  them  from  her,  when 
she  had  helped  so  bravely  with  all  the  abortive  novels. 
But  he  could  not  trust  Maud  with  them  now.  She  could 
not  help  telling  something  to  his  sisters.  They  would  be 
sure  to  ask  her.  Moreover,  if  she  refused  to  tell,  there 
would  be  fresh  reasons  for  quarrel. 

In  some  way,  Maud  was  becoming  a  disappointment  to 
Hubert.  She  did  not  win  the  affections  of  the  women  as 
her  husband  had  hoped  that  she  would.  It  was  true  she 
was  always  pleasant  to  them, —  at  least,  always  convention 
ally  pleasant,  which,  by  the  way,  is  often  quite  the  oppo 
site  from  being  heartily  pleasant ;  but  there  was  a  strange 
ness  growing  between  them,  a  chasm  that  was  daily 
widening.  He  acknowledged  that  it  may  not  have  been 
her  fault ;  and  still  he  blamed  her  for  it.  He  loved  his 
mother  and  sisters ;  and  why  could  not  his  wife  do  the 
same  ?  He  meant  to  make  their  lives  happier ;  but  Maud 
said  once,  in  a  pouting  way,  that  they  wanted  to  keep 
their  happiness  to  themselves. 

His  mother  said  Maud  lacked  true  religion,  and  then 
other  complications  came  in.  If  his  wife  became  con 
verted,  it  would  drive  him  crazy ;  for  she,  knowing  all  of 
his  secrets,  would  consider  it  her  duty  to  tell  his  mother, 
and  then  he  would  have  three  women  hounding  him, — 
his  mother,  his  wife,  and  his  sister.  It  was  not  to  be 
denied  that  Maud  was  taking  an  interest  in  the  protracted 
meetings ;  and  a  change,  too,  was  coming  upon  her.  He 
noticed  fits  of  abstraction  and  a  look  as  of  one  awaking 
whenever  he  touched  her  unexpectedly.  Still,  she  denied 
taking  anything  more  than  a  casual  interest  in  the  doc- 


Qjiicksand  257 

trines  of  salvation.  When  she  spoke  of  the  meetings  at 
all,  she  said  it  was  nice  to  see  the  people,  and  she  enjoyed 
the  walk  and  change.  Maud  seemed  to  get  on  well  with 
Sam,  and  often  said  she  liked  him  the  best  of  the  family. 
Hubert  was  relieved  at  this.  It  kept  her  away  from  his 
sisters  and  their  jealousy,  and  left  him  in  quiet  to  his 
melancholy,  which  was  now  growing  to  morbid  seclusion. 
The  meetings  were  ended  in  a  month,  and  Maud  was  not 
converted;  but  Mrs.  Hinckley  was  exasperated,  so  that 
new  trouble  came  out  of  good. 

His  mother  came  into  the  parlour  one  day,  and  sat  down 
on  the  opposite  side  of  his  table.  It  was  the  dreary,  lag 
ging  cold  at  the  end  of  February.  He  had  been  longing 
for  Hiram  to  come  back,  and  wondering  why  he  did  not 
write  to  them,  to  tell  them  where  he  was.  This  wonder 
ment  had  grown  habit  with  him  now.  He  was  always 
longing  for  Hiram  and  the  healthiness  and  cheer  of  his 
presence. 

As  soon  as  he  looked  up  and  saw  his  mother  sitting 
there,  with  the  nervous,  set  expression  on  her  face,  he 
knew  that  he  must  hear  the  matter  out,  about  the  quarrel 
between  Maud  and  Libbie  ;  for  Libbie  had  been  red-eyed, 
and  in  her  headaches  three  days,  and  the  crisis  must  soon 
be  upon  them. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  he  asked  patiently. 

"  Hubert,  we  must  come  to  an  understanding.  Things 
can't  go  on  this  way  longer." 

"  You  mean  Maud  and  Libbie  ?  " 

"  I  mean  Maud,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  decidedly. 

He  waited  for  her  to  begin. 

"  Hubert,  I  and  your  sisters  have  tried  to  love  Maud 
for  your  sake.  Indeed,  we  have  come  to  love  her ;  but 
she  does  not  appreciate  our  feeling.  We  have  been 
patient  with  her,  remembering  that  she  had  no  mother  to 


258  Qjiicksand 

bring  her  up,  and  the  temptations  of  having  her  own  way, 
and  money  to  spend  as  she  chooses.  We  have  done 
everything  for  her  that  mother  and  sisters  can  do.  We 
have  endured  her  overbearing  ways  and  suffered  under 
her  silence,  when  it  became  necessary  for  us  to  speak.  I 
myself  might  have  kept  on  for  your  sake  and  for  my 
affection  for  her,  but  your  sisters  have  not  had  the  experi 
ence  in  patience  that  I  have,  and  Libbie  is  quite  worn 
into  sickness." 

"  Is  there  anything  now,  especially  ?  "  asked  Hubert, 
feeling  that  there  was. 

"It's  the  work  chiefly  now,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley; 
"though,  if  it's  not  one  thing,  it's  another.  You  know 
Maud  does  the  chamber  work,  or  did  till  Libbie  could  not 
stand  it  in  her  room." 

"  Didn't  Maud  do  it  well  ?  "  asked  Hubert. 

"You  know  how  sensitive  Libbie  is.  She  said  she 
knew  that  Maud  was  looking  into  her  bureau." 

"  Did  she  see  her  doing  it  ?  " 

"  No,  but  things  were  disarranged.  Of  course,  Libbie 
may  have  been  mistaken.  Anyway,  Libbie  took  back  the 
work  of  doing  her  own  room  and  expected  Maud  to  help 
her  with  the  sweeping." 

"  But  Maud  did  offer  to  sweep." 

"  She  offered  to  do  it  all  the  time ;  but  Libbie  won't  let 
her  do  that.  We  don't  want  Maud  to  do  all  the  work ;  but 
she  says  she  will  sweep  all  the  time  or  else  she  won't  sweep 
at  all,  because  she  says  Libbie  won't  let  her  have  her  own 
way.  As  if  Libbie  were  not  here  first,  before  she  was  even 
born  1  But  I  don't  wish  to  take  up  the  quarrel,  though 
something  has  got  to  be  done.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer. 
Maud  has  been  out  helping  Sam,  and  Libbie  has  been 
crying  all  morning." 

"  I  suppose  we  might  go  back  to  Chicago,"  said  Hubert, 
as  if  light  had  come  to  him. 


Qjjicksand  259 

"No,  no,  you  can't  do  that.  You  can't  move  in  the 
middle  of  the  winter.  It  is  not  so  serious  as  that ;  and 
Libbie,  I  know,  is  to  blame  as  much  as  any  one." 

"  We  might  move  down  to  Hiram's  house,  at  least  till 
he  comes  back." 

"  It  isn't  best.  You  wouldn't  get  the  care.  You'd  be 
sick.  The  work  would  be  too  much  for  Maud.  And  I 
don't  think  Hiram  would  like  it ;  that  is,  I  could  not  have 
you  go  there.  I  have  —  I  have  forbidden  this  house  to 
Hiram  for  something  I  can't  speak  of  now.  He  has  been 
ungrateful  toward  us.  No,  no,  I  can't  let  you  go  there." 

"  Well,  Libbie  can't  go  away,  can  she  ?  I  don't  see  how 
they  can  keep  on  together." 

"  Why  couldn't  Maud  go  away  ? "  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 
"  She  has  the  money,  and  she  might  visit  her  friends  in 
Des  Moines.  You  could  stay  here  and  write.  It  would 
be  freer  then  from  interruption.  She  might  make  a  long 
visit.  You  know  it's  not  that  we  don't  want  her  here,  nor 
that  we  begrudge  her  her  living.  We  are  willing  to  do 
anything  for  her.  What  we  have  done  is  a  guarantee  of 
that,  Hubert ;  but  it  would  give  things  time  to  blow  over, 
and —  Well,  now,  consider  it,  Hubert." 

"  I  will  see.  Here  comes  Maud  herself."  And  Mrs. 
Hinckley  made  pretense  of  some  errand,  and  departed, 
leaving  them  together. 

Maud  was  getting  obstinate  of  late,  though  Hubert 
could  see  something  of  the  reason.  She  was  also  getting 
more  beautiful,  but  the  cause  of  that  he  did  not  know. 
He  attributed  it  to  the  country  air  and  the  exercise  of 
their  farm  life.  It  was  having  an  opposite  effect  upon 
him,  for  his  face  was  sallow  and  haggard.  How  beautiful 
Maud  was  as  she  entered,  the  colour  aglow  in  her  cheeks, 
her  hair  escaping  from  her  hood,  and  her  blue  eyes  spark 
ling  like  frost  crystals !  There  were  some  crystals  now, 
unmelted,  on  her  dress. 


260  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"I  had  to  slip  through,"  she  apologised,  "to  get  my 
heavier  overshoes.  I  am  going  with  Sam  to  the  creek  to 
haul  up  a  load  of  brush." 

"  Sit  down,  just  a  minute,"  asked  Hubert.  "  Mother 
says  you  and  Libbie  have  been  quarrelling.  You  know 
Libbie  is  not  well." 

"  Oh,  it's  about  that  sweeping,"  said  Maud.  "  Poor 
thing  !  is  she  still  fretting  about  that  ?  Well,  I  was  a  little 
ugly ;  but  I'll  go  and  ask  her  forgiveness,  right  now,  though 
Sam  is  waiting.  And  I'll  tell  her  she  can  do  as  she  likes, 
and  scold  me  whenever  I  don't  do  right.  There,  I'll  see 
to  it  right  off."  And  away  she  danced  out  of  the  room. 

So  the  storm  passed  over,  like  many  domestic  ones. 
Libbie 's  grief  was  appeased,  and  they  loved  each  other 
quite  contentedly  for  a  few  days ;  and  then  the  break  and 
separation  was  repeated,  each  time  with  a  little  more  feel 
ing.  Mrs.  Hinckley  did  not  forget  to  urge  the  visit  with 
Hubert,  and  once  he  spoke  of  it  to  Maud.  But  she  threw 
the  remark  aside  carelessly.  Her  step-mother  had  moved 
from  Des  Moines.  All  her  old  friends  had  gone  away  or 
were  married.  She  was  more  contented  here  now.  She 
did  not  mind  the  loneliness  so  much,  and  had  made  nice 
friends  among  the  neighbours.  She  did  not  even  look 
with  her  old  favour  upon  moving  into  Hiram's  house. 
"  We  will  be  going  back  to  Chicago,  perhaps,  in  the  sum 
mer  ;  and  + hen  Hiram  might  not  like  to  have  us  go  there, 
considering  his  trouble  with  mother." 

March  came,  and  April  and  May ;  but  the  spring  did 
not  give  Hubert  content.  He  wandered  out  listless  in  the 
sunshine,  and  thought  only  of  fate  that  was  against  him. 


XLIII. 

THERE  came  a  day  of  crises.     It  was  a  beautiful 
day  early  in   June.     Almost   it  tempted   the   boy 
out,  but  he  turned  to  the  shadow  of   the   house. 
His  volume  of  stories  had  come  back  to  him  that  morn 
ing.     There  was  not  a  word  of  comment,  simply  the  usual 
printed  slip  of  refusal.     He  knew  its  wording  by  heart, — 
he  had  received  enough  of  them  the  past  three  years. 
Never  had  a  written  word  come  to  him.     It  was  useless 
to  try  any  more. 

He  went  into  the  hateful  parlour,  and  sat  down  by  the 
table  to  think.  The  house  seemed  deserted  for  once,  and 
he  was  thankful  for  its  stillness  and  peace.  Presently  he 
crossed  over  to  his  trunk,  and  drew  all  his  manuscripts  from 
it.  Should  he  burn  them  and  have  done,  or  try  again  ? 
There  were  the  three  unfinished  novels,  among  others. 
He  began  to  read  them  in  desultory  fashion,  sometimes 
fired  by  their  passages,  but  oftener  disgusted  with  their 
staleness.  The  anti-religious  one  was  the  best :  that 
glowed  with  true  fervour  of  conviction,  and  was  written  in 
powerful  phrasing.  And  that  one  he  could  finish  even 
now.  The  bitterness  of  the  winter  was  with  him, —  his 
own  truckling  and  concealing  and  fasehood.  But  it 
would  break  the  heart  of  his  mother.  That  her  boy 
should  write  an  infidel  novel !  Still,  he  felt  it  spoke  truth. 
He  felt  that  the  world  needed  such  books.  People  must 
break  away,  the  young  men  first  and  most  of  all.  Old 
traditions  were  narrowing  them  into  brutes,  and  he  had 
the  power  to  speak  for  them.  The  world  needed  his 
message.  Against  that  was  his  mother's  love.  No,  the 
world  must  wait ;  and  he  knew  that  it  was  not  the  world 
that  would  feel  the  sacrifice  so  much  as  himself,  who  was 
a  coward.  He  did  not  dare  speak  the  prophecy  he  had. 
He  was  a  coward,  and  would  always  remain  one. 


262  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

His  hot  tears  were  falling  on  the  paper  when  Libbie 
and  Mary  entered  the  next  room.  They  were  in  the 
height  of  a  quarrel.  Hubert  had  never  known  of  such 
between  them. 

"  You  think  you  can  fool  me,  do  you  ?  I  can  see  your 
lies  in  your  face  1 "  The  rasping,  shrill  voice  was  Libbie's ; 
but  he  had  never  supposed  it  could  speak  such  words  in 
this  way,  and  that  to  her  sister  Mary. 

Mary,  it  seemed,  was  sobbing  a  denial. 

Hubert  went  into  the  room.  "  What  is  the  matter  ? " 
he  said  wearily.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  a  worn-out  old 
man. 

Then  came  the  heaviness  of  the  matter.  Libbie  ac 
cused  Mary  of  receiving  clandestine  letters  from  Hiram, 
which  Mary  both  confessed  and  denied.  It  seemed  that 
Libbie  had  proof,  but  Mary  did  not  know  how  much.  And 
Hubert  saw  then  Libbie's  love  for  Hiram  and  her  bitter 
jealousy  of  her  sister,  and  wondered  that  he  had  never 
seen  it  before.  And  he  saw  all  the  misery  ahead.  He 
succeeded  in  getting  Libbie  aside ;  and  she  confessed,  but 
she  thought  that  Hiram  loved  her,  or  would  if  Mary  would 
only  let  him  alone.  Later  on  he  talked  with  Mary  about 
it,  who  told  him  of  the  scene  in  the  wood,  and  how  Hiram 
had  gone  away.  But  she  did  not  tell  even  Hubert  that 
she  had  had  a  letter  that  day,  begging  her  a  last  time  to 
come  to  Chicago. 

Hubert  went  out  for  a  walk,  and  left  them  sullen.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  house  was  unbearable.  He  was  begin 
ning  to  hate  the  place,  and  wish  it  would  burn  to  the 
ground. 

He  walked  along  in  the  June  heat,  his  feet  in  the  sand 
of  the  road.  He  stopped  for  a  time  on  the  bridge, —  the 
bridge  he  had  blown  on  as  a  child  to  cool  it  from  burning 
his  feet.  That  had  been  typical  of  his  whole  life.  He 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  263 

had  blown  on  the  sunshine  to  cool  it  with  his  breath,  and 
naturally  with  little  effect.  The  dinner  bell  rang  at  noon 
time  to  call  Sam  in  from  the  field.  He  would  go  back 
now  and  sit  with  the  family  at  the  table,  a  new  pain  added 
to  those  torturing  them.  He  climbed  the  dusty  hill,  and 
was  dragging  himself  around  the  front  of  the  house  when 
he  saw  his  mother  sitting  at  the  parlour  window,  reading,  a 
stony  look  of  horror  in  her  face.  She  was  reading  the 
manuscript  of  his  novel,  the  one  written  for  freedom  from 
religion.  He  stepped  close  to  the  window,  but  aside  so  as 
not  to  throw  a  shadow.  Yes,  she  was  just  finishing  the 
description  of  the  young  preacher's  escape  from  the  im 
moral  doctrines  of  the  Church ;  and  the  white  despair  of 
his  dear  mother's  face  !  He  slipped  away,  and  ran  down 
the  hill.  He  was  running  away  like  a  coward ;  and  how 
could  he  ever  go  back  ? 

That  afternoon  he  moped,  hungry  and  desolate,  in  the 
wood  along  by  the  creek.  He  lay  on  the  ground  and 
wept,  till  he  imagined  he  heard  some  one  coming,  and  then 
leaped  up  and  ran  as  for  his  life.  What  if  any  one  should 
see  him  blubbering  there  like  a  boy !  The  bees  droned 
and  circled  in  the  sun,  the  grass  creatures  chirped  their 
content.  But  now  he  hated  all  life.  He  cried  out  for 
silence  and  death. 

Haunting  him  doggedly  all  the  time  was  the  thought  of 
how  he  should  go  home.  He  would  be  starved  to  it  in 
time :  he  could  not  go  to  the  neighbours.  Then  he  must 
face  his  mother,  and  confess  himself  a  liar  to  her  face, —  a 
coward,  a  hypocrite,  and  a  liar,  and  with  things  most 
sacred  to  her  heart.  He  could  not  go  home  to-night,  at 
least  not  till  all  were  in  bed.  Then  he  would  slip  in  unbe 
known,  and  ask  Maud  to  bring  him  some  bread. 

How  long  the  sun  lagged  in  the  sky !  It  seemed  that 
the  shadows  would  not  lengthen.  He  set  up  a  stick  by 


264  Quicksand 


which  to  measure,  and  then  a  feverish  haste  came  upon 
him ;  for  he  must  think  of  his  conduct  in  the  morning. 
How  to  face  his  mother  and  Libbie  and  Sam,  who  had 
supported  him  in  college  1 

It  was  impossible  to  think,  though,  to-day.  Perhaps  his 
brain  would  freshen  with  sleep.  If  Hiram  were  only  here  1 
But  Libbie  and  his  mother  had  driven  him  away,  and 
Mary  was  wearing  out  her  life.  What  other  curses  were 
there  in  living  ?  Dear  old  Hiram,  with  the  gay  laugh  and 
the  glowing,  tender  face, —  if  he  were  here  with  his 
counsel  1 

As  the  shadows  deepened  and  advanced,  Hubert  be 
came  afraid  of  the  wood.  With  his  thoughts  still  on 
Hiram,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  go  over  to 
Hiram's  house.  He  could  slip  in  there,  and  wait  till  the 
family  had  all  gone  to  bed.  At  other  times  he  would 
have  been  afraid  to  stay  in  a  vacant  house,  but  now  he 
was  too  miserable  to  know  fear.  He  crept  over  in  the 
stealth  of  the  shadows,  and  broke  into  the  back  kitchen 
window.  Then  he  went  into  the  larger  room,  and  crouched 
in  the  corner  on  the  bed.  He  tried  to  open  the  window 
shutters,  but  they  were  nailed  securely  outside. 

Then  his  fears  came  to  add  to  his  misery, —  all  sorts  of 
dismal,  haunting  fears.  What  if  Hiram  were  dead,  and 
his  ghost  should  come  back  to  this  place  ?  He  knew  he 
did  not  believe  in  ghosts,  but  he  was  so  terribly  afraid. 
He  crept  down  under  the  bed-clothes.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  strange  that  the  bed  should  be  left  in  the  house.  He 
trembled  and  prayed  in  his  terror,  and  wished  he  might 
cry  as  in  the  afternoon ;  but  the  tears  were  drained  from 
his  eyes. 

It  must  have  been  eight  o'clock.  He  was  drowsy  with 
fatigue  and  with  hunger  when  he  heard  a  step  on  the  path, 
a  man  and  a  woman  approaching.  He  could  hear  the 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  265 

murmur  of  their  voices  and  their  breathing  as  they  stood 
by  the  door. 

He  tried  to  call  out ;  but  his  throat  was  parched  as  in  a 
nightmare,  and  his  mouth  remained  set,  though  wide  open. 
The  coldness  of  fear  filled  his  veins  and  centred,  crowd 
ing  his  leaping  heart.  He  could  not  stir  for  his  horror, 
though  he  was  lying  as  on  a  bed  of  sharp  needles. 

Then  a  key  slipped  into  the  lock,  turned,  and  the  door 
opened  stealthily.  When  would  this  dream  of  fright  leave 
him,  and  give  him  power  to  call  out  for  help  ?  His  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  door  when  the  flood  of  moonlight  poured 
in,  and  his  brother  Sam  stood  revealed.  Hubert  was  try 
ing  to  speak,  but  he  was  afraid  of  Sam  now.  Sam  might 
be  frightened  to  hear  him.  Perhaps  he  had  better  keep 
still.  Sam  had  come  to  get  something  probably,  and 
might  not  even  strike  a  light.  Then  Maud  stepped  into 
the  moonlight.  His  wife,  his  beautiful  Maud !  The 
moon  was  round  and  just  risen.  It  bathed  them  full  in 
its  glow,  but  Hubert  was  in  the  darkness  of  the  corner. 

"  Ah,  dearest !  stand  here  in  the  light.  I  want  to  look 
at  your  face."  It  was  Sam's  voice  speaking  to  Maud.  He 
had  never  heard  Sam's  voice  like  that,  so  clinging  and 
quivering  with  passion. 

Maud  turned  her  face  up  toward  him :  it  was  glowing 
with  the  fulness  of  love.  Sam  held  her  back  in  the  moon 
light.  Hubert  could  look  under  his  brother's  arm. 

Then  £am  clasped  Maud  in  his  arms,  and  held  her  to 
him,  kissing  her  passionately,  kissing  her  on  the  eyes  and 
the  mouth,  kissing  her  on  her  forehead  and  hair.  And 
her  arms  were  clasped  around  his  neck :  she  was  clinging 
like  a  vine  to  a  tree.  It  was  like  unto  a  man  and  his  wife. 
Hubert  could  not  utter  a  sound. 

They  stood  for  some  time  in  the  moonlight,  quivering  in 
their  sinuous  embrace.  Then  Sam  took  the  woman  in  his 


266  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

arms,  and  was  carrying  her  over  to  the  bed, —  the  bed 
where  the  trembling  man  lay,  the  man  who  was  husband 
and  brother. 

Ah,  his  brother  1  the  big  black  man  feared  in  child 
hood  1  Now  all  his  child  fear  returned.  Would  he  kill 
him  when  he  found  him  there  ?  Would  he  murder  him  in 
the  jealousy  of  his  passion?  He  heard  the  laboured, 
hoarse  breathing, —  the  breathing  that  was  raucous  and 
scorching, —  a  great,  hairy,  hot  hand  touched  his  face. 

Then  it  was  Hubert's  voice  came  to  him, —  piercing 
scream  after  scream  ;  and  his  muscles  now  came  to  his  aid. 
He  leaped  over  the  foot  of  the  bed,  struck  the  floor,  and 
bounded  into  the  moonlight,  out  into  the  sandy  road 
toward  the  river,  cool  now  with  the  damp  of  the  night. 
Scream  after  scream  as  he  ran,  till  it  came  to  him  Sam 
might  catch  and  kill  him.  Then,  exhausted,  he  crept  into 
the  meadow,  and  crawled  like  a  snake  in  the  grass,  bur 
rowing  his  face  in  the  earth,  making  mud  of  his  sweat  and 
the  blood  where  the  piercing  sharp  stubble  cut  in  him. 


XLIV. 

IT  was  the  moon  that  first  comforted  him, —  the  round, 
calmly  shining,  white  moon.  He  had  turned  his  face 
upward  to  see  if  his  brother  was  following ;  and  he  felt 
the  moon  and  her  glory  and  the  beauty  of  shimmering 
light.  "  Why,  such  turmoil,  little  boy  ? "  the  moon 
seemed  to  say  to  him,  kindly.  "  Here  is  the  depth  of 
heaven,  here  are  the  eternal  stars.  The  earth  dreams  in 
my  diaphanous  wrapping.  What  do  you  fear  ?  Only  death 
can  overtake  you.  I  am  dead.  I  have  been  dead  for 
ages,  and  behold  the  majesty  of  my  peace.  Rise  up.  Do 
not  crawl  like  a  worm.  You  are  a  free  thought  of  God, 
the  Divine.  Rise  up,  and  be  blessed  with  my  halo." 

The  boy  rose  up,  and  walked  out  on  the  sandy  road. 
It  bent  before  him  in  faint,  rose-coloured  light.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  true  road  to  peace, —  the  peace  of  death  in  the 
river.  He  walked  on  till  he  came  to  the  wood,  then  on 
through  the  wood  to  the  shore.  The  sand  was  radiant 
with  light;  and  the  treacherous,  dark  water  slipped  by, 
only  laughing  in  the  reflection  of  the  moon,  that  bobbed 
like  a  half-submerged  bubble,  laughing  with  the  laughter 
of  peace. 

Then  Hubert  sat  down,  and  began  thinking.  His  mind 
was  very  clear  now.  He  could  look  from  the  beginning  of 
his  life  down  through  to  the  details  of  this  day.  It  was 
strange  he  should  think  most  of  Hiram, —  Hiram  as  he 
stood  in  the  boat,  laughing  and  making  merry  before  div 
ing.  He  had  been  in  the  water  once,  and  was  resting  for 
another  sporting.  He  stood  with  his  legs  well  apart, 
rocking  the  boat  as  he  sang.  The  moonlight  caught  in  the 
waterdrops  that  quivered  on  his  gleaming  naked  flesh. 
The  white  muscles  played  over  his  body.  There  was  the 
pathos  of  love  in  his  face.  Then  he  darted  into  the  river, 


268  Qji  i  c  k 


san 


turning  somersaults  and  leaping  from  the  waves,  throwing 
his  arms  to  strike  the  molten  white  surface  of  the  moon- 
wake,  shaking  his  tawny,  square  head,  streaming  with 
rivulets  of  water,  mingling  with  his  shouts  and  his  song. 
Hubert  got  up,  and  returned  to  the  wood.  No,  he  could 
not  die  in  the  river. 

But  his  old  friend  followed  him  to  the  wood :  he  was 
teaching  him  his  comradeship  with  nature, —  how  to  climb 
a  tree,  how  to  look  into  a  bird's  nest  and  not  harm 
the  little  ones  gaping,  how  to  find  the  fairy  paths 
under  the  fern  copse,  how  to  harness  the  blustering 
beetles.  Always  he  saw  the  tender  light  in  the  strong 
man's  eyes,  always  watched  the  caress  of  firm  fingers  on 
all  of  the  objects  they  touched,  always  the  rich,  gentle 
voice.  "  No,  I  can't  die  in  the  wood."  And  Hubert  took 
the  sand  road  back  homeward. 

Three  miles  to  the  stone  house  on  the  hill.  It  was 
rigid  and  cold  in  the  moonlight,  but  his  other  beloved 
'  were  housed  there.  Perhaps,  after  all,  death  was  not 
for  him.  He  had  a  vague  prophecy  within  him  that,  if 
he  was  strong  enough  to  live  this  experience  through, 
then  he  could  write  his  great  novel.  It  was  the  purga 
tory  that  presaged  his  heaven, —  the  heaven  of  fame  and 
strong  doing. 

His  brother  Sam  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  to  meet 
him  as  he  entered  the  garden  gate.  But  he  was  not 
afraid  of  Sam  now,  neither  did  he  hate  him  in  jealousy. 
The  peace  of  the  moon  was  upon  him. 

"  Come  over  to  the  barn,"  said  Sam,  gruffly.  "  I  must 
see  you  before  you  go  in." 

Hubert  could  see  Sam  was  angry.  A  man  like  Sam 
knows  the  dull  burning  of  anger  and  resentment  against 
any  other  he  has  wronged,  especially  if  the  wronged  one 
has  been  near  to  him, —  one  he  has  watched  over  and  pro- 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  269 

tected.  Hubert  was  thinking  as  he  followed,  "  Perhaps 
he  is  going  to  kill  me :  perhaps  death  will  come  to  me  in 
this  way."  But  now  he  was  not  afraid. 

The  two  men  stopped  by  the  cow-yard.  It  was  out  of 
sight  from  the  house,  the  barn  and  haystacks  between 
them.  There  was  a  bench  used  for  resting  the  milk-pails. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Sam,  giving  example. 

Hubert  sat  down  on  the  bench,  his  brother  watching 
him  narrowly.  For  a  time  neither  of  them  could  speak. 
Then  Sam  growled  out  from  the  silence, — 

"  I  suppose  now  you  are  sneaking  home  to  tell  your 
mother." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  telling,"  replied  Hubert.  "  It 
is  an  affair  that  rests  upon  three, —  you  and  myself  and 
Maud." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sam,  much  relieved,  "  then  you  don't  intend 
to  tattle  ? " 

"  Not  now  :  I  had  not  thought  of  it." 

"  Well,  you  wouldn't  show  up  in  a  very  good  light  your 
self,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Sam,  smiling  with  cruelty. 

"  I  should  be  willing  to  compare  my  shame  with  yours, 
Sam,  any  day."  There  was  strength  in  the  moonlight, 
with  peace,  for  those  who  were  sensitive  to  breathe  it. 

Sam  remained  silent  some  time.  "  I  have  wronged 
you,  I  know,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  have  wronged  your 
wife.  I  have  wronged  myself."  A  shudder  of  revulsion 
swept  over  him. 

"I  could  see  the  depth  of  your  passion,"  answered 
Hubert,  out  from  the  stillness.  "  I  can  realise  the  tempta 
tion  to  you.  I  myself  could  not  have  withstood  it."  There 
was  the  mourning  of  fate  in  his  voice.  Its  sympathy 
touched  even  his  brother. 

"  I  have  been  so  starved.  I  have  denied  and  denied  all 
my  life.  You  do  not  know  the  bitterness  of  self-denial.  I 
have  been  hungering  all  my  life." 


270  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  I  know,"  said  Hubert,  solemnly. 

"Then  Maud  was  crying  and  wanting  my  sympathy. 
They  were  nagging  her  to  death  in  there ;  and  you  were 
neglecting  her,  too." 

"  I  know,"  again  replied  Hubert.  "  I  did  not  realise 
then ;  but,  now  it  is  too  late,  I  know." 

"  We  tried  and  tried,  both  of  us,  to  keep  apart;  and  then 
she  was  crying,  and  I  kissed  her." 

This  time  Hubert  made  no  remark,  but  Sam  was  strug 
gling  for  breath.  It  was  as  if  he  were  lifting  a  great 
weight. 

"  Then  we  tried  again  to  keep  apart,  but  every  one  kept 
us  together.  You  sent  us  together  to  the  meetings  every 
night,  and  one  night  we  stopped  by  Hiram's  house.  The 
demons  of  hell  were  in  us  both.  I  never  knew  before 
hell  was  sweet." 

Another  long  pause  and  silence. 

Sam's  grief  was  turning  to  resentment.  Again  he 
was  thinking  of  himself  and  the  beautiful  woman  who 
loved  him, —  the  woman  he  must  now  give  up  to  this  little 
scrub  of  a  man,  Hubert. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Sam,"  said  Hubert,  slowly,  "  I 
have  been  thinking,  that  I  might  give  her  up.  I  should 
also  think  of  my  brother." 

"  Give  her  1  give  her  1 "  sneered  Sam,  the  cruelty  again 
uppermost  in  him.  He  could  not  endure  a  favour  from 
Hubert,  his  brother,  the  husband  he  had  wronged. 
"  When  a  man  talks  of  giving,  he'd  better  stop  to  think 
whether  the  present  is  his.  Ask  Maud  which  one  she 
belongs  to.  You  play  a  dainty  part,  you  little  coward,  to 
sneak  around  and  make  a  great  favour  of  something  that 
is  not  yours  to  help." 

"  I  can  put  the  law  on  you  and  on  her,"  flared  Hubert 
"  If  there  is  a  child,  I  can  disown  it  as  a  bastard." 


Quicksand  271 

"  It  will  be  of  your  own  company,  then,"  sneered  Sam. 
"  You  yourself  are  nothing  but  a  bastard.  You  are  not 
the  child  of  my  mother." 

"  You  lie  !  "  shrieked  Hubert,  striking  at  him ;  but  Sam 
only  caught  and  held  his  hands. 

"  Sit  down,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  story,"  he  said  fiercely. 
"  I  will  show  you  how  you  have  wronged  my  life  as  well." 

In  the  beginning  Hubert  was  compelled  to  listen,  as  the 
concise  tale  was  rehearsed  now  to  him.  He  needed  no 
compulsion  soon.  It  was  plain  that  Sam  was  speaking 
truth.  His  feeling  justified  that.  He  was  disclosing  the 
ruin  of  his  life,  he  was  forgetting  all  about  Hubert,  who 
weakened  with  horror,  sank  back,  and  leaned  against  the 
post  that  was  behind  him. 

There  was  no  need  to  threaten  when  Sam  had  done. 

"  My  mother  a  liar  1 "  was  all  the  dazed  boy  was 
thinking.  "  Not  my  mother,  not  my  father  who  died  I 
This  man  is  not  my  brother  1  I  have  no  sisters  nor 
people  1 " 

"  Now  you  will  not  be  tattling  to  mother  about  what  you 
saw  last  night,"  said  Sam,  doggedly. 

"  No,  I  will  not  tell  now." 

"  Well,  then  let's  go  into  the  house.  It's  almost  morn 
ing,"  said  Sam. 

In  a  dazed  fashion,  Hubert  entered,  and  made  his  way 
into  the  parlour.  He  found  a  lamp  burning  on  the  table 
and  a  note  pinned  fast  to  the  shade.  He  opened  it 
stupidly.  It  was  from  Maud.  "  Don't  come  in  to-night," 
it  said.  "I  will  tell  you  everything  in  the  morning.  I 
have  made  you  a  bed  on  the  sofa." 

Hubert  sat  down,  and  tried  to  think.  Who  was  he 
sitting  here,  anyway?  His  name  had  been  taken  from 
him, —  no  pride  of  seeing  it  now  in  the  world.  He  had 
no  name  to  be  famous, 


272  Qjiicksand 

The  presence  of  the  household  was  weighing  on  him, 
crowding  out  the  light  of  the  moon.  In  here  all  was 
blackness  and  shadow, —  the  blackness  and  shadow  of  liv 
ing.  His  mother  who  loved  him,  and  would  not  rest  till 
he  was  converted  to  her  creed  of  hell ;  his  mother  who 
had  lived  a  lie  to  him  always, —  the  most  sacred  relation 
he  had  known  was  her  lie, —  Maud's  lie  was  not  so  heavy 
upon  him ;  then  Libbie,  torn  with  jealousy,  burning  with 
hate  for  her  sister ;  then  Mary,  who  was  as  weak  as  him 
self,  suffering,  and  no  one  could  help  her  who  had  power, — 
those  who  had  would  keep  up  their  love  torture ;  then 
Sam,  the  gloomy  man  overhead,  the  man  who  had  been 
grovelling  before  him,  torn  by  his  shame  and  his  cruelty ; 
then  Maud,  beautiful  Maud,  who  was  sobbing  and  listen 
ing  perhaps  now  for  his  wrath, —  no,  he  could  not  see  the 
morrow.  There  was  no  strength  for  living  ahead. 

Vaguely  again  came  the  prophecy  that,  if  he  could  live 
this  down,  he  would  be  famous, —  famous  with  the  strength 
of  endurance.  But  fame  was  hateful  to  him  now.  He 
could  not  go  away  and  live  alone,  even  in  the  company  of 
fame.  He  had  no  life  but  with  these  he  loved,  and  his 
love  was  their  daily  suffering. 

He  wrote  on  the  back  of  Maud's  letter :  *'  All  that  I  am 
going  to  do  is  not  because  of  your  fault.  I  have  come  to 
the  end  of  living.  There  is  no  way  out  but  death." 

He  was  thinking  of  how  she  might  marry  Sam  and  be 
happy,  only  he  must  be  out  of  the  way.  But  how  was 
death  to  be  found  ? 

Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  on  a  loop  of  trunk  cord  hanging 
half-way  out  in  the  light  on  a  hook  in  the  hallway.  It 
coiled  in  the  lamplight  like  a  snake.  Then  the  fantasy  of 
fate  seized  upon  him.  He  remembered  the  snake  of  his 
childhood  that  hung  down  from  the  cellar  ceiling  like  a 
rope.  He  stealthily  slipped  into  the  hall,  and  seized  on 


Quicksand  273 

the  rope  like  a  thief.  As  he  looked,  he  saw  the  grey  of 
the  early  summer  dawn,  ghastly  and  harsh  at  the  windows. 
The  moonlight  was  paling  already,  its  vision  poet  light 
choking  out  by  the  garish  daylight  that  was  coming. 

He  seemed  to  see  the  family  coming  down  and  bustling 
about  as  usual.  Oh,  he  could  not  endure  it, —  the  shame 
and  falsehood  and  interference !  Most  of  all,  he  could 
not  endure  their  love.  He  crept  down  the  dark  way  of 
the  cellar,  unreeling  the  rope  as  he  went. 

He  doubled  the  cord  to  make  it  stronger,  climbed  on  a 
bench  to  reach  the  beam, —  the  beam  where  the  snake  had 
hung  down.  How  the  trunk  cord  reminded  him  of  it  1 
Then  he  made  a  noose  for  his  head,  and  firmly  set  his  neck 
in  it.  The  garish  light  was  coming  in  the  small  windows,— 
the  light  that  would  wake  those  who  loved  him.  He  swung 
on  the  rope  with  his  hands  to  test  its  strength,  then  put  his 
hands  down  beside  him,  and  kicked  out  the  bench  from 
his  feet. 

Scrunch  !  went  the  rope  on  its  noose.  He  felt  the  burst 
ing  of  blood  in  his  head.  But  his  feet  struck  the  ground 
of  the  floor  ;  the  rope  had  stretched  with  his  weight.  Al 
ways  a  bungler  in  his  life,  he  had  been  a  bungler  in  dying. 
But  he  was  not  the  coward,  at  least,  now.  He  held  his 
feet  up,  bending  his  knees  till  his  choked  weakness  forced 
him  to  drop  them.  The  light  1  the  exposing  light ! 

The  dead  body  hung,  never  moving,  with  its  knees  not 
eight  inches  from  the  ground.  The  toes  were  balanced 
behind :  they  prevented  any  swinging  motion. 

But  there  was  a  sickening  lurch  as  of  escaping,  when 
Mrs.  Hinckley,  groping  in  the  dim  light  of  noon,  making 
her  way  to  the  potato-bin,  pushed  her  hand  against  the 
blood-swollen  face,  clammy,  with  dead  tongue  protruding. 


Book    III 

Mary 


I. 

MARY  was  standing  by  the  doorway,  looking  down 
the  road  toward  the  river.  The  late  afternoon 
sun  was  shining  hot  and  yellow  in  her  eyes. 
She  lifted  her  hand  to  shelter  them. 

Libbie  put  her  head  out  of  the  window  above.  "  I 
think  I  hear  a  wagon,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "  You 
come  up  and  sit  with  mother,  and  I  will  run  down  to  the 
road.  It's  too  hot  for  you  in  the  sun." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mary. 

She  went  in  through  the  kitchen,  and  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  sitting-room  above.  Libbie  had  already  departed, 
tying  her  sunbonnet  as  she  ran.  She  would  be  the  first 
to  meet  Hiram.  She  would  be  waiting  down  by  the  gate. 

"  We  think  they  are  coming,  mother,"  said  Mary,  going 
over  to  the  bed. 

"  Who  is  coming,  Mary  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Hinckley, 
peevishly.  She  was  partially  recovering  from  her  paraly 
sis,  but  her  memory  seemed  to  be  feeble. 

"  Hiram,  mother,  and  his  children.  You  know  he  has 
adopted  three  children,  the  family  of  a  friend  who  was 
killed  on  the  railroad.  Sam  has  gone  over  to  meet  them 
at  the  station,  and  soon  they  will  be  coming  home." 

"  Where's  Libbie  ?  "  asked  the  mother,  restlessly. 

"  She's  gone  down  to  meet  them  by  the  gate." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  stayed.  Libbie  always  makes  me 
nervous.  Help  me  arrange  my  dress,  and  I  will  get  up  to 
meet  Hiram.  I  suppose  they'll  come  up  to  the  house." 

"  We  will  send  for  him,  mother,  if  he  does  not.  He 
will  come  up  if  you  send  for  him." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  told  Sam  to  tell  him.  Bring  me  my  other 
apron.  It  was  Libbie  that  brought  this  one  for  me. 
Libbie  does  everything  wrong.  I  wish  you  would  wait  on 
me,  Mary,  and  let  Libbie  stay  in  the  kitchen." 


278  QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  her  to  do  something  for  you, 
mother." 

"  Yes,  no  doubt,  no  doubt ;  but  she  makes  me  nervous 
with  her  fussing.  Is  my  hair  smooth  now  ?  " 

"  It  is  beautiful,  and  now  they  are  stopping  at  Hiram's 
house.  I  see  him  jumping  out,  and  now  he  is  helping  the 
children.  Mother,  he  is  waving  his  hat.  I  will  answer 
him  with  my  handkerchief." 

The  sick  woman  looked  over  to  where  her  daughter 
was  standing  by  the  window,  and  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  it  occurred  to  her  that  Mary  was  beauti 
ful.  The  lithe  form  was  springing  with  action.  Her  arm 
was  waving  a  greeting.  She  turned  half  around  to  tell 
her  mother  what  she  saw;  and  a  rich  colour  quivered 
under  her  brown  skin,  like  wine  bubbling  in  an  old  glass. 
Her  brown  eyes  shone  with  fire  and  with  tears,  that  opal 
light  burning  from  love.  Her  dark  hair  sagged  back  from 
her  face  where  the  patient,  sweet  features  were  vibrating, 
laughing  with  the  joy  that  they  knew,  heavy  with  the  sor 
row  to  come. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  the  mother  as  if  she  were 
losing  her  daughter.  She  might  fly  away  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  go  to  join  the  angels  of  heaven. 

"  Mary,"  she  called  fretfully.  "  Mary,  come  here  to 
me." 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  Are  you  tired  ?  Do  you  want  to 
go  back  to  bed  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something, —  to  promise 
me  before  Hiram  comes." 

"  What  is  it,  mother,  that  you  want  ? "  The  sorrow 
was  mastering  now. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me,  Mary,  that  you  will  never 
leave  me  while  I  live, —  that  you  will  never  marry  any 
body." 


Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  279 

"I  promise,  dear  mother,"  said  Mary,  falling  on  her 
knees  by  the  chair,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  sick 
mother's  lap. 

"  You  know,  Mary,"  said  the  mother,  the  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks, —  "  you  know  I  have  not  long  to  live ; 
and  I  need  you  to  nurse  me  and  care  for  me.  Libbie  does 
not  do  at  all.  She  never  understands  my  disease.  Prom 
ise  me  you  will  never  leave  me.  It  will  not  be  for  very 
long  now." 

"  I  will  never  leave  you,  mother,"  said  Mary,  sobbing  as 
if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  And  you  will  go  with  us  out  to  Kansas.  You  know 
I  cannot  live  in  this  house.  I  can  never  get  well  when 
I  know  that  that  cellar  " — 

"  Hush,  mother  1 " 

"  But  I  shall  gain  when  we  are  started  for  Kansas. 
The  doctor  says  the  change  will  do  me  good.  And  you'll 
go  along  with  me,  Mary  ?  You  will  not  marry  and  leave 
me?" 

"I  will  go  with  you,  mother.  Now  let  us  think  no 
more  about  it,  for  Hiram  will  be  coming  up  soon." 

Mrs.  Hinckley  allowed  her  daughter  to  kiss  her ;  and 
Mary  went  back  to  the  window,  but  with  no  joy  now  in  her 
face. 

The  joy  came  again,  however,  as  she  saw  them  coming 
up  the  path.  The  strong,  brown  man  that  she  loved, 
Hiram  whom  she  had  promised  to  marry.  He  was  walk 
ing  between  Sam  and  Libbie,  carrying  a  child  on  his  arm. 
A  little  girl  ran  by  his  side,  holding  fast  to  his  free  swing 
ing  hand,  and  timidly  shrinking  and  bumping  on  his  legs 
to  keep  a  good  distance  from  Libbie,  who  held  fast  to  her 
other  hand.  A  boy  something  younger  than  she  walked 
gravely  on  Hiram's  other  side,  tiny  between  the  two  men. 
They  had  white  hair  and  blue  eyes  of  the  north;  and 


280  Qjiicksand 

Hiram  was  laughing  toward  the  window,  and  talking  to 
Libbie  and  Sam. 

"  They  are  here.  Shall  we  go  out  to  meet  them  ?  Will 
you  let  me  lead  you  out,  mother  ?  " 

"  Take  care,  Mary.  I  am  weak.  You  know  I  can't  hurry 
at  stairs." 

"  Yes,  mother.  Step  here.  We  will  meet  them  out  by  the 
arbor." 

"Is  my  chair  outside  by  the  door ?  You  know,  Mary, 
my  sickness  won't  let  me  stand." 

"It  is  here.  Sit  down.  They  are  coming:  they  are 
just  there  behind  the  arbor." 

She  stood  waiting  tremulously  for  him,  the  copper  sun 
radiant  upon  her,  just  warming  the  depths  of  her  hair  and 
lighting  her  eyes  and  her  lips. 

Then  Hiram,  her  lover,  came  in  sight, —  the  tawny, 
square  head  as  of  old,  the  dauntless  and  laughing  blue  eyes. 

The  children,  frightened  with  the  strangeness,  clung 
clogging  and  fearful  to  his  legs.  But  he  laughed  as  he 
tenderly  detached  them  and  stopped  to  give  them  a  caress. 
"  There,  Olga,  take  care  of  Fred  like  a  little  mother ;  and, 
Eric,  stand  by  your  sister." 

Then  he  walked  up  joyous  to  Mary,  standing  smiling 
before  him.  No  matter  now  who  should  see  them,  no 
matter  if  Libbie  stood  by,  nervous,  and  watching  like  a 
snake.  From  this  time  there  should  be  no  more  secrets. 
He  took  his  broad  hat  from  his  curls, —  the  curls  that  were 
grown  grey  with  waiting.  His  eyes  saw  but  two  eyes  ahead, 
comrade  fires  burning  and  watching.  His  strong  arms 
were  gently  around  her  as  he  half  bent  to  kiss  her  on  the 
mouth.  No  matter  who  stood  there  now.  Henceforth 
there  should  be  no  more  secrets. 


II. 

"  "W  7"OU  see,  it  was  this  way,"  said  Hiram,  as  he  sat  in 
||  the  circle  among  them,  the  baby  Fred  again  on 
JL  his  knee  and  Olga  crowding  against  him.  "  I 
was  living  in  the  same  house  with  them.  They  let  a  fur 
nished  room  to  me  in  Chicago,  and  I  was  right  there  when 
the  father  was  brought  home  in  pieces.  He  was  a  switch 
man,  and  was  running  across  the  tracks  to  rescue  a  child. 
He  had  just  dodged  in  front  of  one  engine,  but  had  for 
gotten  the  Milwaukee  Express  on  the  next  track.  He 
threw  the  child  into  safety,  but  was  struck  square  by  the 
cow-catcher.  I  guess  he  never  knew  where  he  was  hurt. 
The  lady  whose  child  he  saved  was  standing  by  at  the 
time.  Well,  when  they  brought  him  home  dead,  it  upset 
his  wife  terribly.  She  was  sick  with  the  fever,  and  took  a 
relapse  when  they  told  her  about  it.  She  didn't  live  more 
than  a  week."  He  stopped  to  stroke  Olga's  head,  who 
looked  on  them  all  with  sad  eyes. 

"  But  didn't  their  relatives  want  the  children  ?  "  asked 
Libbie. 

"  No,  they  didn't  have  any  in  Chicago.  You  see,  they 
were  Norwegians,  hadn't  been  more  than  seven  years  in 
this  country.  Olga  was  born  over  there.  No,  there 
wasn't  any  one  wanted  them  but  me ;  and  they  wanted  me, 
I  guess,  too.  Their  uncle  in  New  York  wrote  that  there 
wasn't  any  place  for  them  in  the  old  country,  and  he  was 
too  poor  to  take  them.  So  the  judge  was  willing  to  let  me 
adopt  them.  They  all  took  the  name  of  Stubbs,  and  now 
all  I  need  to  make  a  family  is  to  look  up  a  wife  somewhere." 

"  But  Olga  will  make  a  good  housekeeper,"  he  went 
on,  feeling  the  awkwardness  of  the  silence.  "  She's  ten 
now  on  her  next  birthday.  She  knows  how  to  cook  Nor 
wegian  style  now,  and  all  she's  got  to  learn  is  American. 


282  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

Eric,  here,  can  give  a  hand,  too.  Stand  up  to  show  them 
how  tall  you  are,  Eric." 

"  They  may  have  bad  blood,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley.  "  I 
always  suspect  these  foreigners.  You  never  know  how 
they'll  turn  out." 

"  Well,  as  for  blood,"  answered  Hiram,  "  I  think  their 
father  proved  his.  The  lady  whose  child  he  saved  walked 
away,  and  was  never  heard  from  afterward.  Oh,  but  the 
papers  gave  it  to  her!  But  their  mother  was  a  lovely 
woman,"  he  continued,  going  back  to  the  subject.  "  I 
could  see  she  was  as  patient  with  the  children  I " 

"  Sam  tells  me  you're  going  to  have  a  sale  and  go  to 
Kansas,"  he  said  after  a  silence. 

"  Yes,  I  can't  live  here,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  glancing 
backward  toward  the  cellar. 

"  Sam  has  a  place  out  there,"  hastened  Mary,  changing 
the  subject.  "  He  got  it  on  a  mortgage." 

"  We  all  need  a  change,"  said  Libbie,  interrupting. 
"  Neither  Mary  nor  I  can  stand  it  to  live  here :  we  must 
get  away  from  these  surroundings." 

Hiram  sighed,  and  looked  gloomy.  "  When  does  the 
sale  come  off  ? "  he  asked. 

"  In  a  week  from  to-day,"  answered  Sam.  "  We  ain't 
going  to  try  to  sell  the  house  now.  We'll  leave  it  in  the 
hands  of  an  agent." 

"  That's  bad,"  answered  Hiram.  "  Some  one  ought  to 
live  in  it  right  along.  It'll  get  a  bad  name  standing 
empty." 

"Mother  says  she  can  never  get  well  here,"  replied 
Sam.  "  If  [she  had  her  way,  we'd  start  for  Kansas  to 
morrow." 

"I  would  go  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley.  "I  can 
never  sleep  in  this  house." 

"I've  been  thinking  of  something,"  said  Hiram;  "but 
we  can  talk  of  that  later  on." 


Quicksand  283 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  the  restless  Libbie. 

"  Well,  I've  been  thinking  I'd  like  to  buy  the  old  place. 
Sam  has  been  giving  me  the  terms.  I  believe  I  could 
take  it  on  time,  and  I'd  rent  it  to  Al  and  Lizzie  Johnson, 
and  then  I'd  stock  it  up  with  babies  from  the  orphan 
asylums  in  the  cities,  and  it  would  not  be  like  an  asylum ; 
but  we'd  be  a  family  like  together,  though  of  course  I'd 
live  in  my  own  house  with  my  own  true  children  to  keep 
me."  And  his  hand  sought  Olga's  white  head. 

"  You  never  could  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  try;  and  I  think  I  could  make  my 
payments.  Sam  and  I  have  been  talking  it  over.  The 
farm  is  doing  well  now,  stocked  up  as  it  is ;  and  I  know 
Al  Johnson  would  give  his  work  for  a  home,  and  Al's  a 
thrifty  farmer,  and  Lizzie  is  a  good  housekeeper,  too,  and 
would  make  a  mother  for  fifty." 

"  They're  from  the  gutter  themselves,"  said  Mrs. 
Hinckley.  "  I  never  liked  my  girls  to  go  there." 

"  Perhaps  they  will  understand  all  the  better  children 
who  have  come  from  the  gutter,"  answered  Hiram. 

"  You'd  better  do  it,  Hiram,"  urged  Sam.  "  I  know 
you  can  keep  up  the  payments,  and  the  house  is  liable  to 
stand  vacant  for  years.  People  don't  like  to  move  in 
here.  They  are  superstitious  in  these  parts.  Well,  I 
shouldn't  like  it  myself." 

"  Hush,  Sam ! "  said  Mary,  looking  toward  their 
mother,  who  was  showing  signs  of  her  fright. 

"  Well,  we'll  talk  it  over,"  said  Hiram.  "  But  it'll  be 
hard  to  see  you  go  away." 

No  one  gave  him  an  answer. 

"  I  had  hoped  you  could  marry  me  now,  and  be  a 
mother  to  my  family,"  he  said  sadly,  smiling  as  he  turned 
upon  Mary. 

"  Mary  has  promised  to  stay  with  me  while  I  live," 
broke  in  the  shrill  voice  of  Mrs.  Hinckley. 


284  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"  Mary  would  not  live  a  year  in  this  house  or  near  it," 
said  Libbie,  "  after  all  she's  gone  through." 

"No,  I  have  promised  mother,"  said  Mary,  speaking  to 
Hiram.  "  You  can  see  now,  Hiram,  for  yourself  that 
while  she  lives  my  place  is  by  her  side." 

"  Mother  says  I  make  her  nervous,"  said  Libbie,  begin 
ning  to  cry. 

"  You  don't  make  me  nervous,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 
"  Nothing  makes  me  nervous,  I  tell  you ;  but  Mary  under 
stands  my  disease.  That's  the  reason  I  must  have  her 
with  me." 

Libbie  smiled  a  superior  silence.  "  You  see  what  we 
have  to  bear  with,"  her  smile  was  seeming  to  say. 

"Well,"  said  Hiram,  "  I'll  have  to  give  up.  I'd  about 
made  up  my  mind  to  it  from  your  letters ;  but  it  goes  hard 
to  do  it  just  the  same." 

"  Mary,  it's  time  to  get  supper,"  said  Libbie. 

"  You'll  stay  to-night,  won't  you,  Hiram  ?  "  said  Mary, 
looking  her  pleading  through  her  tears. 

"  Not  to-night.  We  have  brought  things  with  us  for 
supper,  and  Lizzie  Johnson  has  made  the  house  ready. 
How  soon  do  you  start  after  the  sale  ? "  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"  We  have  planned  to  start  a  week  from  next  Monday. 
That  will  be  four  days  after  the  sale,  which  is  Thursday." 

"  Ten  days,"  said  Hiram,  counting.  "  And  now  I  have 
one  thing  to  say,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Hinckley  and  Libbie. 
They  held  their  breath,  for  they  saw  he  was  determined. 

"  Just  one  thing  to  say,"  he  repeated.  "Mary  and  I 
have  been  promised  to  each  other  for  six  years  now  stand 
ing  ;  and  now  she  can't  keep  her  promise,  but  must  go 
where  her  first  duty  lies.  Well,  that  must  be ;  for  she 
chooses.  But  during  the  ten  days  between  I  shall  choose. 
Mary  and  I  shall  spend  much  of  the  time  together.  The 


Qjiicksand  285 

mornings  will  be  enough  for  her  work.  You  can  get 
Lizzie  Johnson  to  help.  All  of  the  afternoons  Mary 
belongs  to  me, —  all  from  dinner  till  after  supper.  She 
will  come  down  to  my  place  and  stay  with  my  children. 
And  she  shall  come  alone ;  and  there  will  be  no  use  of 
your  interfering  or  making  a  fuss  about  it.  You  will  have 
her  all  after  that,  all  your  lives ;  and  I,  ten  afternoons. 
Ten  afternoons,"  he  repeated;  and  his  voice  dwelt  on 
them  like  a  lover's. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  began  to  fret  about  her  sickness,  and  Lib- 
bie  to  show  signs  of  hysteria ;  but  Sam  brought  his  hand 
down  on  his  knee,  and  said  with  a  vehemence  unknown  to 
him,  "  Hiram  is  right ;  and  we  will  not  hear  a  whimper  of 
objection,  and  do  you  hear  to  it,  Libbie." 

Mary  was  not  able  to  speak,  but  she  signalled  her  an 
swer  to  Hiram.  The  man  gathered  up  his  small  flock, 
and  walked  away  in  the  twilight. 

"  There  shall  not  be  a  single  word  said,"  repeated  Sam, 
looking  at  the  women. 

"  To  make  an  orphan  asylum  for  vagabonds  from  the 
city,"  sputtered  Mrs.  Hinckley,  with  spirit.  "  He  gets  to 
be  a  bigger  fool  every  year  that  he  lives ;  and  I  never 
could  have  forgiven  myself  —  never  —  if  I'd  consented  to 
my  daughter's  marrying  him." 

She  rose,  and  stepped  briskly  into  the  kitchen,  going 
about  preparing  the  supper.  So  great  was  her  excitement 
that  she  forgot  all  about  the  horror  when  she  looked  at  the 
cellar  door. 

Libbie  flew  about  in  equal  restlessness.  And  Mary 
crying  in  the  arbor,  knew  that  she  would  not  be  interrupted 
but  Hiram  should  have  his  way. 


III. 

TEN  short  September  afternoons  to  furnish  the  hap 
piness  of  a  lifetime,  and  these  mingled  with  sorrow 
and  care,  the  grief  that  is  hopeless  for  the  dead, 
and  the  anxiety  that  solicits  the  living. 

"  It  is  more  than  many  people  have,"  said  Mary,  thought 
fully,  one  day  when  they  had  been  watching  the  children. 
"  It  is  more  than  Libbie  ever  had,  or  Sam,  or  Al  or  Lizzie 
Johnson." 

"  It  is  not  enough  for  me,"  answered  Hiram. 

"  But  it  has  really  been  more  than  ten  days.  It  has 
been  ever  since  the  night  by  the  river.  I  shall  never  for 
get  that  night,  Hiram." 

He  turned  to  her  with  the  wistfulness  of  suffering  in  his 
face. 

"  Does  it  not  seem  to  you,  Hiram,  as  if  we  had  been 
married  then,  and  that  these  three  were  really  our  chil 
dren  ? " 

"  If  you  can  make  it  seem  so  to  you,  I  shall  always  love 
them  for  your  sake."  And  his  voice  was  hopeful  in  prom 
ising. 

She  called  them  to  her,  and  kissed  each  one  tenderly  in 
turn.  "  You  are  truly  my  children,"  she  said,  "  as  he  is 
truly  your  father." 

Olga  sat  down  quietly  by  the  sweet,  gentle  lady,  but 
Fred  was  soon  tumbling  like  a  ball ;  and  Eric,  with  grave 
elder  air,  was  needed  to  mind  the  baby. 

Hiram  began  telling  of  some  of  their  tricks  and  quaint 
answers,  and  the  talk  went  happily  again.  They  were 
long  afternoons,  though  but  short  ones. 

In  the  evening  they  gathered  around  the  table  as 
though  they  were  the  family  they  had  called  themselves. 
Mary  showed  Olga  how  father  liked  his  tea,  and  presided 


Qjuicksand  287 

at  the  head  of  the  table.  Hiram  sat  at  the  foot,  and  at 
tended  to  feeding  the  baby.  There  was  only  the  ordi 
nary  conversation, —  the  talk  of  improvements  in  the 
house  to  make  things  convenient  in.  cooking,  the  plans 
for  the  house  on  the  hill ;  for  now  it  had  been  fully  de 
cided.  Albert  Johnson  had  entered  into  the  scheme 
heartily,  willing  to  do  anything  at  all  if  he  could  be  in 
partnership  with  Hiram.  Moreover,  he  had  surprised  all 
the  Hinckleys  by  showing  that  he  had  a  thousand  dollars 
in  the  bank ;  and  he  proposed  to  invest  it  in  stock  at  the 
sale,  so  that  the  farm  would  pay  from  the  beginning. 
Lizzie,  as  well,  came  to  the  front,  and  showed  that  her 
years  had  not  been  in  vain.  She  also  had  savings  enough 
to  go  a  good  way  on  the  furniture.  So  Hiram  could  be 
left  free  with  his  money  to  begin  on  the  payments  for  the 
land. 

"  You  see,  they  are  glad  to  get  away  from  the  old  folks 
now,"  explained  Hiram;  "  for  Ned  wants  to  bring  home  a 
wife,  only  you  mustn't  be  telling  anybody." 

"  Is  it  little  Delia  Foster  ?  "  asked  Mary ;  and  then  she 
must  know  all  about  it,  for  what  woman  is  not  fond  of  an 
engagement,  provided,  of  course,  it  is  secret. 

After  the  supper  was  over,  Mary  would  help  Olga  with 
the  work,  though  it  would  appear  this  demure  maid  of  ten 
had  all  the  experience  of  a  housewife.  Meanwhile  Hiram 
would  play  with  the  baby  or  give  Eric  instructions  in 
whittling.  Afterward  there  was  a  chat  and  a  smoke,  and 
the  children  were  helped  off  to  bed.  Then  Hiram  and 
Mary  walked  home  under  the  gold  moon  of  the  harvest. 

"  It  might  have  been  for  always,"  Mary  said  to  him 
one  night,  "  it  might  have  been  for  our  lives,  Hiram,  if  I 
had  seen  clearly  my  duty  instead  of  following  the  one  I 
was  taught." 

"  It  might,"  answered  Hiram,  gently. 


288  Qjiicksand 

"  But  I  did  not  know,  I  could  not  foresee ;  and  I  did 
what  I  thought  then  was  right." 

"  I  know,  Mary.      I  always  believed  you  did  that." 

"  But  I  should  have  married  you  at  first.  I  should 
have  stood  against  my  mother  and  Libbie  and  all  of 
them.  But,  Hiram,  it's  so  hard  to  stand  against  those 
you  love." 

"  You  loved  me,  though,"  he  said  fondly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know ;  but  I  always  thought  I  could  get 
both.  I  wanted  to  please  every  one,  Hiram ;  and  it  seemed 
that  we  might  always  arrange  things." 

"  It  seemed  so  to  me,  too,  Mary,"  he  said.  "  It  was 
not  your  fault  more  than  'twas  mine.  I  always  thought 
if  we  waited  "  — 

"  No.  It  was  my  fault  most,"  Mary  interrupted  deter 
minedly.  "  I  will  not  have  you  blaming  yourself.  I  need 
the  remembrance  of  my  blame  to  hold  me  strong  in  the 
future." 

"  You  strong  in  the  future  !  "  And  he  laughed  at  the 
humour  of  the  idea.  "  Why,  Mary,  do  you  not  know  that 
Libbie  and  your  mother  will  manage  you  all  the  days  of 
your  life  ?  And,  even  if  they  should  die  before  you,  the 
memory  of  what  they  had  said  would  control  you  after 
they  were  gone." 

"  You  have  a  poor  opinion  of  me,  Hiram.  I  wonder 
that  you  wanted  me  for  a  wife." 

"  That  was  why  I  wanted  you,"  he  said,  teasing.  "  I 
envied  Libbie  her  command,  and  wanted  to  get  it  from 
her." 

"  Hiram,  I  believe  you  would  joke  if  you  were  going  to 
be  hung."  How  the  sorrow  with  both  of  them  was  called 
up  by  this  old  and  familiar  saying  1 

They  were  standing  by  the  gate  of  the  garden,  looking 
up  to  the  stone  house  above  them,  white  in  the  light  of 
the  moon. 


Quicksand  289 

"  You  will  drive  all  the  shadows  out,  Hiram,  when  you 
get  your  children's  voices  in.  How  many  will  you  have 
in  the  beginning  ?  " 

"  Not  many.  I  have  been  thinking  about  that.  Not 
more  than  would  make  a  good  family.  Families  are  the 
best,  after  all ;  but  each  child  must  follow  his  bent,  and 
no  one  shall  interfere." 

"  But  your  own  children  ?  "  she  said,  looking  back. 

"  They,  too,  will  go  their  own  way.  I  am  already 
looking  forward  to  the  time  when  Olga  will  marry  and 
leave  me;  but  I  can  take  another  daughter  then.  This 
house  will  always  furnish  supply.  Do  you  know  I  have 
often  wondered  why  parents,  when  their  children  have 
married,  don't  take  other  children  in  their  place  ?  The 
world,  has  so  many  who  are  homeless." 

"  The  members  of  one's  family  are  dearer,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  wonder  at  that,"  he  objected.  "  Did  you  ever  no 
tice  that  children  almost  invariably  love  some  comrade 
better  than  their  brothers  or  sisters  ?  I  think  this  almost 
always  is  true  when  they  have  grown  youths  and  maidens. 
Only  rarely  two  brothers  are  always  enough  for  each 
other." 

"  Sisters  often  are,"  said  Mary. 

"  Now  you  and  Libbie,  for  instance.  Don't  you  love 
each  other  as  much  as  any  sisters  you  have  known  ? " 

"  More,"  said  Mary,  with  warmth. 

"  And,  still,  have  you  not  loved  other  girls  more  than 
you  did  Libbie  ?  " 

"  Only  once.  That  was  when  I  went  to  the  academy ; 
but  Libbie  and  I  felt  that  was  wrong." 

"  But  didn't  Libbie  love  any  one  more  than  you  ?  " 

"  Only  one,  and  that  girl  grew  to  hate  her." 

"  Poor  little  Libbie  !  "  sighed  Hiram.  "  She  is  to  be 
pitied  more  than  them  all." 


290  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

"And  loved,  too,  Hiram.  That's  the  reason  I'm  leav 
ing  you.  You  and  I,  we  have  lived  very  well." 

"  No,  not  well,"  he  objected. 

"  But  you  will  live  well  with  the  children,  the  father  to 
such  a  large  family.  And  you  will  swim  with  them  and 
row  with  them  and  skate  with  them." 

"  The  girls  just  the  same  as  the  boys,"  replied  Hiram. 
"  I  shall  make  the  girls  strong  in  themselves." 

"  But  some  of  them  will  prove  bad,  Hiram." 

"I  shall  like  the  bad  ones  quite  as  much  as  the  good," 
he  answered.  "  And,  if  there  are  those  I  don't  like,  I 
will  be  just ;  but  I  will  never  pretend  a  love,  Mary." 

"  I  can  see  you  now,  Hiram,  sitting  like  the  father 
among  them  out  in  the  dear  old  grape  arbor.  You  will 
have  a  good  and  useful  life,  Hiram,  and  a  happy  one, 
too,"  she  added. 

"  And  you,  Mary  ? "  His  voice  was  like  winter  rain 
falling. 

"  I  shall  do  very  well,"  she  replied.  "  You  know  I 
must  never  leave  Libbie.  She  would  go  the  way  of  Hu 
bert  if  we  married." 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  turning  to  comfort  her,  "  it  is  not 
the  happiness  we  know  that  makes  life,  but  the  good  that 
we  do,  little  Mary ;  and  you  have  always  been  good, — 
the  most  good  I  have  ever  known  in  either  a  man  or  a 
woman." 

"  To  hear  it  from  you,  Hiram,  I  shall  always  remember 
it,  though  I  feel  it  cannot  be  true." 

He  answered  her  in  the  fashion  that  became  him. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  more  before  I  go  in.  Can  you  for 
give  me  for  breaking  my  promise  to  come  to  Chicago  ?  I 
did  try,  and  try  to  arrange ;  but  it  was  all  so  mixed  up 
and  tangled." 

"  You  only  promised  to  go  to  Hubert,  and  Hubert  was 
no  longer  there." 


Qjiicksand  291 

"It  was  broken  just  the  same,"  she  replied.  "What 
I  really  promised  was  to  come  to  you,  and  that  promise  I 
broke." 

"  There  can  be  no  forgiveness  where  there  is  no  blame," 
he  replied.  "  You  did  the  only  thing  you  could  see  to 
do." 

"  But  do  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  any  such  thing  as  forgiveness," 
he  answered. 

"  Not  any  such  thing  as  forgiveness  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  only  another  word  for  patronising, —  a  word 
invented  by  the  one  doing  it." 

"  What  do  you  believe  in,  Hiram  ?  " 

"  Love,"  he  answered,  showing  her. 

And  by  the  silence  that  followed  she  must  have  been 
convinced  it  was  quite  enough. 

"  Now  I  must  go  in,  Hiram.  Libbie  may  be  watching 
at  the  window." 

"  Libbie  will  have  her  day,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  her  suffer 
ing  may  prove  good  discipline  for  her." 

"  She  is  wearing  herself  threadbare  this  week.  I  can 
never  forgive  myself  for  being  so  happy.  And  only  four 
more  days  1  "  she  added,  sighing. 

"  Four  more  days  1 " 

He  stood  with  the  words  on  his  lips  long  after  she  had 
disappeared  in  the  house. 


IV. 

THE  sale  began  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
wagons  were  coming  early.  The  Hinckleys  were 
known  far  and  wide,  as  Mr.  Hinckley  had  done  so 
much  carpenter  work  throughout  the  country ;  and  the 
tragic  death  of  his  son  had  called  all  of  the  old  days  to 
mind.  It  is  probable  that  many  indifferent  purchasers 
came  for  curiosity  merely.  They  wanted  to  see  the  house 
"  where  he  done  it  "  and  "  how  the  family  was  taking  it." 
They  knew  that  it  was  the  cause  of  the  moving,  and 
judged  that  they  must  be  taking  it  pretty  hard.  "  It's  too 
bad  to  see  the  old  place  go,"  they  said.  "  The  Hinckleys 
were  among  the  old  settlers,  and  you  scarcely  will  find 
a  nicer  family.  Girls  a  little  bit  stuck  up,  they  say ;  but 
I  never  saw  anything  of  it.  It  don't  pay  to  go  in  for  this 
college  education.  That  was  what  was  the  matter  with 
the  Hinckleys.  If  they'd  let  that  boy  work  on  the  farm 
more,  and  not  got  him  so  over-educated,  the  family  would 
not  be  moving  away." 

Mrs.  Hinckley  stayed  in  her  room  upstairs,  though  the 
women  were  admitted  to  see  her  when  they  asked,  and 
came  down  full  of  genuine  sympathy,  however  they  may 
have  gone  up.  Libbie  flew  about  and  made  everybody 
comfortable,  asking  them  to  lay  aside  their  things,  and 
putting  the  sleeping  babies  on  the  beds,  and  making  ex 
cuses  that  they  could  not  furnish  dinner,  but  saying  they 
would  have  plenty  of  tea  and  coffee  that  could  be  taken 
out  to  the  wagons.  But  Libbie  looked  worn  and  hollow- 
eyed  in  spite  of  her  hospitable  smiles.  "  Libbie  was 
the  brightest  of  the  Hinckleys,"  said  the  neighbours.  "  It's 
curious  she  never  got  married." 

Mary  was  busy  in  the  kitchen  downstairs,  where  the  sale 
of  household  goods  was  to  be  held.  But,  as  the  day  was 


Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  293 

beautifully  pleasant,  it  was  decided  at  the  very  last  mo 
ment  to  have  everything  out  of  doors.  The  auctioneer 
could  stand  by  the  kitchen  door  on  the  porch;  and  the 
crowd  were  seated  or  standing  around  him,  some  of  the 
women  who  disliked  the  sun  easily  taking  shelter  in  the 
grape  arbor,  where  chairs  were  arranged  for  their  con 
venience.  The  auctioneer  was  a  well-known  one  from 
Fort  Madison.  His  jokes  and  urging  of  bids  were  worth 
any  man's  time  for  a  day,  if  he  had  not  a  dollar  to  spend. 

They  would  sell  the  household  articles  first,  and  by 
eleven  o'clock  come  to  the  stock  at  the  barn.  That  was 
the  time  of  the  biggest  crowd.  Then  the  sale  of  the  stock 
could  be  resumed  when  the  men  were  good-natured  after 
dinner.  Later  in  the  day  would  come  the  odds  and  ends 
that  would  not  be  of  importance.  People  would  begin  to 
go  who  lived  far  away,  and  things  would  drag  at  the  close. 
Every  one  looked  into  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  kitchen 
toward  the  cellar  door.  No  one  saw  down  there,  however. 
The  furnishings  had  all  been  brought  up,  and  were  ar 
ranged  in  display  along  the  wall. 

Then  began  the  sounding  of  the  hammer  and  the  jokes 
of  the  auctioneer,  the  regular  repeated  exclamations  as 
the  articles  were  turned  over  to  strangers, —  going  once, 
going  twice,  going  three  times,  and  gone  to  the  highest 
bidder. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  above  could  hear  every  stroke  of  the 
hammer,  each  sound  being  a  blow  at  her  home  that  twenty 
years'  care  had  built  around  her.  At  length  she  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  but  closed  the  window  and  crept  off  to 
the  bed,  questioning  why  God  should  so  punish  her  as  to 
twice  take  her  home  harshly  from  her.  She  was  weeping 
and  trying  to  pray,  when  Libbie  came  slipping  in  silently, 
red-eyed,  and  sobbing  for  comfort. 

"  You  should  be  downstairs,  helping,"  said  the  mother, 


294  Qu  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


after  they  had  been  hugging  each  other.  "  How  can  the 
auctioneer  get  the  things  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mary  is  doing  all  that.  She  doesn't  mind  it  as  I 
do.  Mary  is  not  sensitive  about  such  matters.  I  really 
believe  she's  glad  to  see  the  things  go." 

"  How  are  they  selling  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"I  asked  Mary,  but  she  said  she  didn't  know.  It's 
curious  she  don't  take  more  interest.  She's  just  carrying 
things  like  a  store-keeper,  doing  whatever  the  auctioneer 
tells  her." 

"  I  wonder  who's  buying  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"  Mary  says  Al  Johnson  and  Lizzie  Johnson  are  getting 
most  of  the  furniture,  the  bureaus  and  tables  and  beds. 
It's  a  comfort  to  know  that  they  will  be  left  in  the  house." 

"To  be  used  and  galloped  over  by  a  herd  of  dirty 
ragamuffins  from  the  city.  Oh,  I  have  seen  those  filthy 
young  ones  in  Chicago  I  I'd  rather  have  my  things  burned 
than  used  by  such  people.  Remain  in  the  house,  indeed  I 
And  the  house  itself  to  be  defiled,  where  we  have  lived 
so  happy  together,  under  my  watch  and  protection  I " 
Mrs.  Hinckley  began  crying  again,  and  Libbie  could  offer 
no  comfort. 

"  Isn't  any  one  bidding  against  the  Johnsons  ? "  she 
soon  began,  restlessly,  again.  "  Surely,  our  things  are 
worth  more  than  they  can  pay  for  them.  I'd  like  to  know 
where  they  got  all  their  money,  though,  goodness  knows, 
they  skimped  enough  at  home.  Well,  what  can  such 
people  do  but  save,  who  have  no  family  back  of  them  ? 
Libbie,  never  forget  that  you  have  a  family  behind  you. 
Never  forget  your  mother  was  a  Cummings,  not  rich,  not 
so  rich  as  her  ancestors,  but  a  Cummings  and  a  lady  born. 
Those  Johnsons  came  from  the  gutter, —  from  the  gutters  of 
Cincinnati ;  and  Hiram  Stubbs  hasn't  much  to  brag  of,  if 
he  is  going  to  buy  our  place.  He  shows  what  he's  made 


Qjjicksand  295 

of  by  the  kind  of  people  he  takes  to.  Birds  of  a  feather 
flock  together.  There  never  was  truer  saying." 

In  time  there  was  a  lull  in  the  selling.  "  They've  gone 
to  the  barn,"  said  Libbie,  peeping  out  of  the  window ;  "  and 
the  women  are  going  to  the  wagons.  I  must  get  ready  to 
serve  them  their  coffee." 

"  What's  Mary  doing,  then,  that  she  can't  come  up  to  me 
and  see  how  I  am  getting  on  ?  It's  strange  that  on  this 
the  hardest  day  of  my  life  she  should  leave  me  entirely 
neglected." 

"  I  suppose  she's  at  work,"  said  Libbie,  with  compunc 
tion  ;  "  but  I'll  ask  her  to  come  up  a  minute." 

Mary  came  in,  cheerful  and  quiet. 

"  It's  hard  for  you  mother,  I  know ;  but  the  worst  of  it 
is  over  now.  I'd  stay  here  with  you  if  I  could ;  but  dinner, 
you  know,  must  be  ready.  There's  the  auctioneer  and 
one  or  two  extra  from  Fort  Madison, —  stock-buyers  that 
Sam  will  have  to  ask.  Lizzie  Johnson  is  helping  in  the 
kitchen,  but  everything  is  strange  and  upset  with  most  of 
the  furniture  moved  out." 

"  How  did  things  sell  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"  Pretty  well,  Sam  says.  There  is  a  big  crowd,  it's 
such  a  fine  day.  But  you  can't  expect  big  prices  at  an 
auction." 

"  Libbie  says  the  Johnsons  got  a  good  many  things." 

"  Yes,  the  plain  things  and  the  bedsteads  and  bureaus. 
They  bought  the  dining  table  and  the  range  and  some  of 
the  chairs,  but  none  of  the  parlour  furniture  nor  carpets." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hinckley.  "  At  all  events, 
some  one  civilised  will  appreciate  the  best  things.  Did 
they  get  the  counterpanes  ?  " 

"  No,  only  the  mattresses  and  some  of  the  linen  and 
comforters." 

"  Who  got  the  hanging  lamp  ?  " 


296  Quicksand 


"  I  think  it  was  Mrs.  Green." 

"  I  suppose  she'll  give  it  to  Minister  Simmons.  Well, 
he  will  remember  that  lamp." 

"  Now  I  will  get  you  some  tea  and  toast,  mother ;  and 
will  you  have  some  chicken  and  potato  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  must  eat.  I'd  come  down  and  see 
how  things  sold,  only  I  don't  think  it  would  look  very 
well  before  all  the  people.  So  I  guess  I'll  stay  where  I 
am.  But,  if  any  of  the  women  want  to  come  up,  tell  them 
they  are  welcome,  Mary.  I'm  feeling  very  poorly,  of 
course ;  but  my  neighbours  are  always  welcome." 

"  How  changed  mother  is  of  late  1 "  said  Mary  as  she 
hurried  downstairs.  "  I  suppose  she's  beginning  to  get 
old,  and  then  it's  her  sickness  makes  her  that  way.  The 
day  is  hard  enough  for  her.  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  her 
sooner." 

There  was  a  half-hour's  rest  at  noon-time,  when  the 
people  went  off  to  their  wagons  to  partake  of  their  picnic 
dinner.  The  sale  was  going  well,  they  all  said ;  but  what 
had  got  into  the  Johnsons  ?  Was  it  possible  that  Al  was 
going  to  get  married,  or  would  it  be  Lizzie  stepping  off  ? 
Then  some  one  knew  of  the  truth,  and  all  of  them  shook 
their  heads.  "  Hiram's  a  curious  fellow.  Now  you'd 
think  he'd  marry,  and  have  a  family  of  his  own.  It's 
curious  how  he  picks  up  so  much  money.  Hiram  is  not 
what  you'd  call  lazy ;  and  yet  he's  always  got  time  to  quit 
working  if  there's  any  fun  to  be  had.  Well,  I'd  say  it 
wouldn't  go  at  all  if  Hiram  Stubbs  wasn't  the  head  of  it. 
Everything  seems  to  go  with  him.  He's  a  nice  fellow, 
Hiram  is." 

Libbie  came  around  with  the  coffee  and  tea.  She  was 
smiling  now  again  to  them.  A  woman's  face  clears  quickly 
after  a  storm.  Libbie  liked  the  excitement  of  the  people. 
"  I  wish  I'd  been  born  in  the  city,"  she  used  to  say.  "  I 
believe  I'd  been  different  then." 


uicksand  297 


Again  the  selling  began.  Again  the  crowd  began 
gathering,  following  the  auctioneer  as  he  went  from  stock 
to  machinery.  There  was  restlessness  and  moving  at  the 
house  until  dark,  when  the  last  wagon  was  gone. 

Hiram  came  up,  and  found  Mary  searching  for  some 
thing  in  a  pile  of  old  grain-bags. 

"I'm  so  tired  I've  forgotten  what  I'm  looking  for,"  she 
said  in  answer  to  his  question.  "  I  thought  it  would 
never  be  over.  And,  now  that  it  is,  I  don't  feel  any 
better." 

"  It  has  cheated  us  out  of  one  of  our  afternoons,"  said 
Hiram,  dolefully. 

"  And  to-morrow  I  will  have  to  work  at  this  distraction, 
and  next  day,  too ;  for  that's  Saturday.  And  then  Sunday 
the  neighbours  will  be  in  to  say  good-by.  And  Mon 
day  "  —  Her  eyes  were  getting  misty. 

"  I  guess  the  afternoons  are  over,"  said  Hiram.  "  They 
were  six  instead  of  ten." 

"  They  were  better  than  any  ten  I've  ever  had,"  she 
replied,  "  even  if  I'd  take  my  pick  of  them." 

"  Well,  I'll  come  up,  and  give  you  a  lift  from  now  on. 
There's  more  than  can  be  done  before  Monday,  but  your 
mother  is  bound  to  start." 

"  It  is  better,"  said  Mary,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Hiram.     "  It  is  better." 


V. 

IT  had  been  strongly  urged  by  Sam  and  Libbie  that 
the  family  go  to  Kansas  by  the  train ;  but  Mrs.  Hinckley 
preferred  the  wagon.  Her  physician  had  thought 
that  the  outdoor,  active  life  might  do  her  good,  and  the 
constant  change  of  scene  might  cause  her  to  forget  her 
sorrow.  Sam  yielded  to  this  argument  because  the  over 
land  method  was  much  cheaper,  and  Mary  was  silently  in 
favour  of  it  because  of  its  very  slowness.  It  would  take 
more  time,  she  told  herself,  to  get  away  from  the  places 
she  loved.  There  would  be  less  time  to  spend  in  an 
alien  country.  They  sent  a  large  box  of  household  goods 
by  freight,  such  as  linen,  dishes,  and  family  heirlooms. 
The  remainder  of  the  things  that  had  not  been  sold  were 
stowed  in  the  heavy  wagon.  They  would  take  a  cow,  and 
not  attempt  to  travel  many  miles  a  day.  The  weather 
would  probably  be  fair  for  six  weeks  to  come.  There 
would  be  no  need  of  hurry. 

In  the  arrangement  of  the  wagon  and  camp  outfit, 
Hiram  was  chief  workman  and  director. 

"  I  have  never  travelled  by  wagon,"  he  would  say ;  "but 
I  can  show  most  people  who  have  how  they  could  have 
done  it  better."  It  was  he  who  made  larger  bows  for  the 
cover,  boxing  out  on  the  sides,  —  a  method  unknown  in 
those  days, —  giving  the  women  more  room  to  sleep,  and 
even  arranging  a  tiny  stove  in  the  rear  in  case  they 
should  meet  with  bad  weather.  Then,  with  his  sailor's 
skill  and  knowledge  of  compactness  in  stowing,  he  made 
them  convenient  pockets  and  boxes  in  every  available 
space,  slinging  the  breakable  articles  from  the  top  and 
placing  everything  where  it  would  be  needed,  keeping 
the  kitchen  in  its  place  and  the  articles  of  toilet  for  the 
sleeping  apartments.  By  a  neat  arrangement  the  cover 


QJJ  icksand  299 

could  be  easily  slipped  up  on  the  sides  for  fair  days  or 
drawn  down  and  buttoned  securely  for  rainy  ones,  all  to 
be  manipulated  from  within  as  a  housewife  would  regulate 
her  window-shades.  Mrs  Hinckley's  rocking-chair  was 
slung  on  behind,  even  a  pocket  for  her  knitting  stowed 
neatly  under  its  seat.  Their  provision  box,  their  kitchen 
utensils,  the  packing  and  placing  of  all,  were  left  to  his 
skilful  calculations.  He  showed  them  how  to  make  a 
table  on  the  wagon  tongue,  and  gave  Mary  instructions  on 
camp-fires  with  practical  illustrations. 

"  I  wish  I  were  going  myself,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  just 
to  see  that  my  plans  are  all  carried  out.  But,  then,  there  is 
my  family,"  he  added,  looking  back ;  and  the  peace  came 
into  his  face.  "  Besides,"  looking  up  at  the  half-gutted 
house,  "  there's  plenty  of  work  to  do  here." 

By  Saturday  night  the  outfit  was  well  completed.  It 
is  remarkable  how  much  may  be  done  when  work  goes 
with  order  and  method.  Albert  Johnson  had  been  in  to 
help ;  and  Sam  had  given  his  aid,  though  most  of  his  time 
was  employed  in  making  settlements  and  collections. 

Sunday  the  white  wagon  stood  ready,  its  oil-cloth  top 
gleaming  in  the  sun. 

"She  is  like  a  ship  waiting  her  launching,"  said  the 
master,  proudly  surveying.  "  We  should  give  her  a  name 
and  christen  her, —  break  a  bottle  of  champagne  over  her 
bows  as  she  sails  out  Monday  morning." 

Mrs.  Hinckley  looked  severe  at  the  mention  of  spir 
ituous  liquors ;  but  Libbie  and  Mary  were  so  delighted 
with  the  idea  of  a  christening  that  Hiram  agreed  to  forego 
the  champagne  and  call  her  the  Bonaventure,  after  some 
boat  he  had  known,  painting  the  name  on  the  green  box 
of  the  wagon  in  deftly  scrolling  red  letters.  That  was 
before  going  to  church.  Mrs.  Hinckley  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  having  such  performances  on  Sunday  till  Hiram 


300  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

silenced  her  by  saying  that  christenings  were  always  on 
that  day  in  any  civilised  country. 

In  the  afternoon  the  neighbours  came  in  to  say  a  quiet 
farewell,  for  the  sense  of  tragedy  and  grief  was  still 
hanging  over  the  house ;  and  they  looked  at  the  appoint 
ments  of  the  wagon  and  talked  of  the  pleasures  of  travel 
and  new  prospect  that  lay  before  them  as  if  they  were  a 
wedding  company,  and  not  four  broken,  worn  souls  wan 
dering  into  the  wilderness  to  die. 

It  was  Hiram  who  was  keeping  them  cheerful :  he  was 
bringing  his  heart  and  strength  to  it.  Already  the  Hinck- 
ley  farm  was  his,  the  white  stone  house  a  new  home. 
The  deeds  had  been  made  over  in  Fort  Madison,  and  his 
mortgage  given  as  security.  Since  that  time  he  would  not 
be  gloomy.  The  new  spirit  would  be  felt  in  the  house. 
He  would  not  have  them  leaving  a  grave,  turning  their 
faces  to  strangers.  He  would  have  them  leaving  his  home, 
the  place  of  the  laughter  of  children ;  and  they  would  be 
looking  back  upon  friends.  One  friend  they  should  al 
ways  look  back  to,  though  they  pretended  refusing  to  ac 
cept  him.  "  There  shall  be  cheer  behind,  even  if  there  is 
no  hope  ahead,"  said  the  will  of  the  sturdy  Hiram. 

More  than  they  realised,  he  came  to  have  his  way. 
Mrs.  Hinckley,  in  spite  of  herself,  would  interrupt  her 
own  broodings,  thinking  of  the  grave  of  her  husband  and 
the  horror  of  the  hated  cellar,  by  wondering  if  Hiram  had 
done  this  or  supposing  he  had  forgotten  that.  She  found 
comfort  in  always  blaming  him :  if  he  had  not  forgotten, 
she  complained  that  the  thing  was  not  as  she  wanted  it ; 
and,  if  he  had  waited  for  her  judgment,  she  regretted  that 
he  had  forgotten.  But  Hiram  could  always  laugh.  He 
could  show  the  many  advantages  of  his  method,  or  even 
good-naturedly  change  work  to  suit  her.  To  be  sure,  he 
grumbled  under  his  breath,  and  aloud  when  she  had  left 


Qjiicksand  301 

him.  In  the  evening,  when  he  was  home,  he  came  very 
near  something  like  sea-worthy  language.  But  Mary  was 
soon  in  his  thoughts,  and  the  patience  would  not  be  needed 
after  two  days.  Then  he  must  brace  himself  ahead  for  a 
long  lifetime  of  patience. 

Monday  morning  came,  hazy  and  fair,  one  of  those 
rapturous  days  of  the  soft-sunned  Indian  summer.  It 
must  have  been  such  that  gave  the  Indians  the  name 
of  Iowa,  meaning,  in  their  phrase,  the  lazy.  Never  had 
the  molten  Mississippi  been  more  beautiful  than  to-day, 
never  had  the  drowsing  fields  been  more  golden,  never 
the  maples  more  flaming  or  the  oaks  more  lustrously 
purple,  still  holding  their  rich  summer's  colour. 

Hiram  was  up  early  and  stirring,  singing  as  he  cared 
for  the  horses.  Then  he  told  the  children  to  make  ready 
and  come  up  the  hill  with  him  to  see  the  ship  put  to  sea. 

The  Hinckleys,  having  been  left  to  themselves,  were 
breathless  with  the  excitement  of  departing.  There  had 
been  something  of  sobbing  and  tears,  something  of  praying 
as  well,  but  more  of  fretful  high  scolding.  Then  Hiram 
moved  sturdily  among  them,  and  all  things  fell  into  order ; 
and  each  woman  went  on  with  her  work,  shamed  that  all 
should  be  ready  and  she  alone  keeping  them  waiting. 

Sam  had  some  final  packing.  So  it  was  Hiram  who  put 
in  the  horses,  while  Eric  gave  serious  assistance  and  Olga 
watched  by  the  cow. 

The  women  with  their  bonnets  and  wraps  made  the 
detour  of  the  house  to  take  a  farewell  of  the  rooms,  osten 
sibly  to  see  if  they  had  left  anything.  Mary  felt  that  she 
was  leaving  in  every  one  something  that  could  not  be 
taken  away,  something  she  would  never  find  again  ;  but 
Libbie  hated  the  place.  It  had  been  the  scene  of  her 
torment,  and  had  no  visions  of  peace  to  come.  The 
mother  looked  with  both  of  these  passions ;  but  she  car- 


302  Qju  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

ried  the  added  burden  of  one  who  is  already  old, —  old 
and  going  among  strangers. 

But  Hiram  stood  by  the  horses,  his  love  aglow  like  the 
sun.  They  must  see  the  blue  sky  overhead  when  now 
they  were  talking  to  Hiram. 

He  helped  Mrs.  Hinckley  in  first  on  the  front  seat  with 
Sam.  He  explained  the  step  he  had  made  for  her  on  the 
wagon  and  the  hand-rail  that  was  fastened  to  the  box.  As 
she  stood  on  the  step,  almost  pleased,  he  kissed  her  gen 
tly  on  the  cheek.  She  forgot  to  chide  in  her  confusion, 
the  movement  had  been  so  gallant  and  sudden. 

Then  Libbie,  too,  waiting  and  expectant,  should  receive 
the  sister's  embrace.  Then  Mary  for  a  moment  in  his 
arms, —  Mary  trembling  like  a  bird  that  is  dying.  Hiram 
spoke  no  word  after  that.  There  was  a  steady  hand-clasp 
with  Sam.  Sam's  hand  ached  for  an  hour  afterward  with 
that  sweet  pain  that  gives  one  such  pleasure.  Then 
only  the  smiling  of  farewells,  the  waving  of  hat  at  the 
gate  where  the  valiant  man  stood  gazing  wistfully,  with 
his  children  clinging  about  his  knees. 


VI. 

BUT,  if  the  women  did  not  cry  upon  leaving  the 
house,  once  they  were  well  on  the  way  and  out 
from  the  cheery  man's  influence,  they  made  up  for 
all  they  had  lost.  Mary  could  hardly  say  good-bye  to 
familiar  objects,  the  windings  of  the  creek,  the  school- 
house  and  homes  of  the  neighbours.  She  was  glad  they 
were  not  going  to  see  the  river,  for  the  memories  of  those 
old  nights  of  moonlight  when  Hiram  first  told  her  of  love 
would  have  been  more  than  she  could  well  bear.  Be 
sides,  she  had  Libbie  clutching  her  spasmodically,  shaken 
and  torn  with  her  sobbing ;  and  her  mother,  too,  must  be 
comforted,  whose  strength  must  be  nurtured  for  the  jour 
ney. 

Sam  drove  gloomily,  getting  out  once  on  the  hill  in  pre 
tence  of  going  back  to  look  at  the  cow,  but  really  for  a 
last  glimpse  of  Hiram's  house,  sheltered  under  the  edge 
of  the  hill, —  the  house  that  held  many  memories  for  him, 
wild  passions  and  sweetness  of  the  past.  Maud  had  gone 
back  to  her  old  home  immediately  after  the  funeral.  The 
two  had  hardly  spoken  to  each  other,  and  she  had  written 
only  to  his  mother.  He  climbed  back  into  the  wagon,  and 
the  horses  walked  on  to  the  westward.  It  was  a  long  road 
now  before  them.  Their  prairie  ship  was  entering  wide 
waters. 

They  made  camp  that  night  by  a  high  green  hedge  with 
a  white  house  behind  it,  at  the  end  of  a  lane.  Libbie 
went  up  to  the  house  to  get  water,  and  chatted  a  few  min 
utes  with  the  women.  The  evening  was  gloriously  beau 
tiful, —  yellow  clouds  swathing  the  pale  sky.  Mrs.  Hinck- 
ley  seemed  quite  hopeful,  now  that  the  first  grief  was 
over  ;  and  Mary  was  busy,  as  usual, —  getting  accustomed 
to  the  strangeness  of  her  kitchen,  Everywhere  she  found 


304  Qu  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 


evidences  of  Hiram  in  the  neatness  of  packing  away. 
She  seemed  to  feel  his  hand's  warmth  on  the  dishes,  and 
the  little  camp-stove  burned  with  his  brightness.  They 
made  the  table,  too,  on  the  wagon-pole  with  the  extra  fixt 
ures  he  had  furnished  ;  and,  when  they  sat  down  to  their 
meal,  they  were  almost  gay  with  the  newness  of  tin  plates 
and  the  smoke-taste  that  flavoured  the^fried  potatoes.  Lib- 
bie  told  of  the  people  she  had  spoken  with,  and  gave  de 
scription  of  all  their  appearance,  with  mimic  talk  of  what 
they  had  said.  "  Oh,  I  wish  we  were  going  to  a  town 
or  a  city,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  always  wanted  to  live 
among  people  I  "  Mary  thought  of  Oliver  Day,  who  was 
now  well  established  in  Burlington,  an  enterprising 
lawyer,  they  heard,  and  had  taken  to  himself  a  wife. 
Ah,  the  past  that  was  gone,  and  the  things  that  might 
have  been  happier  1 

"  Mary,  eat  your  supper  more  quickly,"  said  the  mother, 
watching  anxiously.  "  It  is  cold  in  a  minute  in  this  open 
air,  and  tin  plates  will  not  hold  the  heat." 

"  You  know,  mother,  I  never  enjoy  my  own  cooking. 
Can  I  help  you  to  a  little  more  tea  ? "  But  Mary  liked 
holding  the  steel  knife  and  fork.  She  was  thinking  that 
Hiram  had  held  them.  That  very  morning  he  had  placed 
them  in  their  compartment  of  the  box.  What  was  Hiram 
doing  now  ?  She  saw  behind  her  thin  tears  the  table 
with  the  evening  meal  spread  on  it,  and  the  father  sitting 
with  his  children,  listening  to  their  prattle  of  play. 

Libbie  would  wash  the  dishes ;  and  Mrs.  Hinckley  in 
sisted  on  helping,  so  that  Mary  was  left  to  making  beds, 
while  Sam  was  feeding  the  horses.  Sam  would  sleep 
under  the  wagon,  and  preferred  to  make  his  own  bed. 
Hiram  had  showed  him  a  trick  with  the  boards  of  the 
table  that  would  keep  him  free  from  the  damp  even  on  a 
rainy  night,  with  curtains  of  canvas  fastened  up.  Libbie 


QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  305 

and  her  mother  were  talking  by  the  camp-fire,  and  Mary 
wandered  back  to  the  road  to  turn  her  face  again  eastward. 
She  had  been  walking  a  short  time  when  she  was  startled 
by  something  like  the  light  of  a  fire  in  the  horizon. 
Could  it  be  that  their  old  home  was  burning  ?  Her  ner 
vousness  made  her  forget  that  the  fire  would  not  show 
twenty  miles.  No,  it  was  the  late  harvest  moon ;  and  her 
lover  was  watching  its  rising.  Gently  the  mellow  warmth 
flowed  till  the  shrunken  orb  sailed  in  the  blue.  Like  a 
golden  love-ship  it  sailed,  and  carried  for  her  many  mes 
sages  sent  by  the  one  that  she  loved.  Then  the  comfort 
came  to  her  in  her  passion.  This  friend  would  always  be 
with  her :  the  moon  would  follow  all  on  the  earth ;  and 
Hiram's  eyes  would  rest  lovingly  on  it  and  her  eyes  would 
see  it  as  well.  Oh,  if  their  glances  could  rebound  !  She 
turned  up  her  bared  face  full  toward  it ;  and,  like  kisses, 
its  beams  fell  on  her  mouth.  Scientists  and  fools  laugh 
at  this,  and  say  they  were  not  the  man's  kisses  reflected  ; 
but  where  is  the  lover  who  believes  them  ? 

Mary  went  back  to  the  wagon  with  great  comfort  and 
peace  in  her  heart. 

"  We  thought  you  were  lost,"  exclaimed  Libbie.  "  You 
need  some  one  to  look  after  you." 

That  night  was  a  restless  one  for  all :  they  were  not 
yet  accustomed  to  ship's  quarters.  But  always  was  the 
knowledge  to  the  wakers  of  their  freedom  from  the  haunt- 
ings  of  death.  The  fresh  wind  blew  over  the  prairies ; 
and  above,  in  the  open,  was  travelling  the  late  round 
moon  among  his  stars,  like  the  shepherd  who  was  watch 
ing  his  sheep. 

Oddly  enough,  a  herd  of  sheep  went  by  them  in  the 
night.  Their  backs  were  half  lustrous  in  the  moonlight. 
They  moved  like  the  waves  of  the  river :  a  luminous  cloud 
of  dust,  too,  hung  over  them,  wavering  like  the  faint  river 


306  Qji  i  c  k  s  a  n  d 

mists.  They  lifted  the  curtains  to  look  out,  and  Sam 
rose  to  stand  by  the  horses.  Then  the  muffled  bleating 
and  tramp  faded  in  the  distance ;  and  again  the  crickets 
and  grass  folk  sang  to  them,  telling  of  their  freedom 
from  the  house,  with  the  dead  swinging  ghastly  in  the 
cellar. 

The  dawn  came  flushing  to  them,  gently  speaking  of 
new  travels  and  change.  Mary  was  up  in  her  kitchen  by 
the  time  that  the  sun  could  look  in.  Libbie  was  arrang 
ing  the  beds,  and  Sam  again  tending  cow  and  horses. 
Then  their  schooner  set  sail,  and  a  new  day  was  fairly 
begun.  Mary  was  looking  sadly  back.  "  Good-bye, 
Hiram,"  she  was  thinking.  "  Good-bye,  my  place  of 
the  moon.  I  will  stand  again  to-morrow  night  looking, 
and  every  night,  every  night  after,  as  long  as  the  moon 
shall  live  ! " 

That  day  they  went  through  a  county  seat  unknown  to 
them,  with  its  square  stone  court-house  in  the  centre 
of  a  green,  and  the  business  houses  ranged  on  the  outer 
side  of  the  square  across  from  the  white,  dusty  street.  At 
night  they  camped  under  a  cottonwood-tree,  whose  yellow 
leaves,  flapping  and  flapping,  made  them  always  dream 
it  was  raining.  Again  Mary  looked  at  her  moon,  and 
again  the  kisses  came  back  to  her. 

Straight  westward  sailed  the  land-ship  each  day,  guided 
by  the  north  star  for  compass.  Sometimes  the  earth-sea 
was  rough,  and  they  toiled  over  hills  of  its  billows.  Some 
times  there  were  islands  of  trees,  with  fresh  streams  and 
young  oaks  on  the  hillsides.  In  two  weeks  they  had 
reached  the  Missouri,  and  it  reminded  them  of  their  own 
dear  home  river,  but  only  in  its  width  and  its  swiftness ; 
for  the  shores  were  barren  where  they  crossed,  and  the 
waters  were  yellow  with  soil. 

There  were  two  days  of  hills  in  Nebraska,  where  the 


QJJ  i  c  k  s  a  n  d  307 

sea  fiction  was  vivid  indeed, —  rolling,  billowy  lappings  of 
blue  sod;  hazy  Mediterranean  in  the  twilight.  It  was 
there  that  Mary  saw  the  new  moon's  faint  circle.  It  made 
her  begin  to  love  the  west.  There  .was  a  waste  of  lone 
liness  behind  now.  Sometimes  she  lost  the  directions, 
and  her  heart  was  faint  with  disturbance.  The  moon, 
too,  had  been  hiding  a  time.  But  now  Hiram  could  surely 
look  over,  and  the  love-light  would  speak  him  her  mes 
sage. 

Prairies,  prairies,  were  swamping  them.  Their  ship 
was  entering  bleak  waters. 

Three  weeks  brought  them  on  the  edge  of  these  seas ; 
and,  as  the  fourth  week  was  advancing,  the  growing  moon 
shone  on  dead  grass, —  long  stretches  of  fields  without 
fences,  saffron  and  golden  in  the  moonlight, —  mystic  and 
wonderful  always. 

But  the  river-bred  people  grew  very  lonely.  The  dis 
tance  made  them  sea-sick,  almost.  They  longed  for  trees 
and  clay  hillsides.  This  endless  monotony  of  sod  —  dry 
sod  with  dead  grass  parched  on  it  —  they  had  not  dreamt 
of  before.  Besides,  it  was  hard  to  get  wood  for  their 
camp-fires  and  water  for  the  cow  and  their  horses.  Feed 
was  getting  scarcer  and  scarcer.  One  night  they  had 
no  water  or  wood,  but  sat  with  their  thirst  in  the  dark 
ness. 

"  It  is  like  a  desert! "  wailed  Libbie. 

"  If  I  had  thought  Kansas  was  going  to  be  like  this," 
said  Mrs.  Hinckley,  "I'm  sure  I  should  never  have 
come." 

To  make  matters  worse,  Sam  was  in  suffering.  For 
a  month  there  had  been  a  lump  in  his  shoulder.  He  had 
spoken  of  it  sometimes  in  carrying  things ;  but  now  it  had 
broken  open,  a  running  sore,  and  made  them  all  sick  with 
forewarnings.  What  if  it  should  be  a  cancer  ;  and  were 


Qjiicksand 

there  physicians  where  they  were  going?  They  urged 
Sam  to  stop  and  consult  a  physician  at  the  town  as  they 
were  passing  through.  But  he  would  not  listen  to  their 
pleading,  but  set  his  face  doggedly  on. 

"  A  man  can't  treat  me  in  a  minute,"  he  said.  "  He 
would  want  me  to  stop,  and  stay  a  year.  No,  we'll  go 
on  and  settle  in  our  house  —  if  there  is  any  house  on  our 
farm.  And  then  there'll  be  time  for  the  doctors  to  ex 
periment  on  me.  I've  got  to  live  awhile  yet." 

So  it  came  that  they  were  watching  for  the  end, 
and  growing  more  dismal  at  the  prospect.  Only  Mary 
took  comfort ;  for  the  moon  was  much  brighter  on  the 
plains,  glowing  like  the  face  of  a  friend. 


VII. 

O  you  see  that  frame  house  with  the  gable  this 
way,  out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  prairie  ? " 
said  a  sinewy,  wind-tanned  farmer,  pointing  for 
the  anxious  women  in  the  wagon.  "  Well,  that's  the  house 
you  want :  that's  the  old  Stebbins  place.  It's  two  miles 
and  a  half  from  my  corner." 

"  It's  so  far  from  the  neighbours,"    said  Libbie. 

"  Oh,  there's  neighbours  enough,"  said  the  farmer. 
"  There's  a  house  over  there  a  half  a  mile,  and  another  a 
mile  and  a  quarter  on  the  north ;  and  then  the  Clark's 
live  down  in  the  draw, —  you  can't  see  their  house  from 
here, —  and  then  here  I  am.  Two  miles  and  a  half  is 
nothing  out  here.  We  always  have  good  roads  and 
horses. 

"  So  you've  come  from  Iowa  to  settle,"  he  said,  taking 
a  chew  of  tobacco.  "  You  bought  the  Stebbins  place  ? 
It  went  for  the  mortgage  from  Stebbins.  He  said  the  wind 
blew  away  all  his  crops,  and  he  went  to  Washington  to  try 
it.  He  writes  back  good  reports  from  that  country.  I 
may  go  west  myself  some  time,  provided  I  can  sell  where  I 
am.  This  country  is  the  best  place  for  cattle,  but  I  am 
a  gardener  myself.  I  hope  you'll  let  us  know  if  there's 
anything  you  need  in  fixing  up,"  he  called  after  them. 
"  My  wife  would  get  up  to  see  you,  but  her  health  is  poorly 
out  here." 

Sam  spoke  encouragingly  to  the  horses.  "  We're  al 
most  home,"  he  said  wearily. 

The  women  watched  from  under  their  bonnets.  The 
wind  was  blowing  a  gale  from  the  south-west, — dry,  shrill 
blasts  from  the  horizon.  There  was  little  but  horizon  to 
this  landscape. 

The  Hinckleys  had  taken  off  the  wagon  cover  entirely. 


310  Qjiicksand 

It  caught  too  much  wind  as  it  was,  and  now  the  breeze 
whistled  triumphantly  through  the  bare  masts  of  their 
ship. 

"  I  can  see  now  why  the  grass  is  so  short  out  here," 
said  Libbie,  "  the  wind  keeps  it  worn  off  close." 

"  It's  dry  and  bleached,  just  like  that  man's  whiskers," 
said  Mary. 

"  His  name's  Fox,"  corrected  Libbie.  "  I  wonder  if 
every  one  out  here  chews  tobacco,  and  gets  it  all  over 
his  chin  ? " 

"  The  house  looks  like  a  granary  I  "  said  Mrs.  Hinckley. 

"  More  like  a  rabbit  trap  to  me,"  remarked  Libbie, — "  a 
rabbit  trap  that's  caught  its  game,  and  been  left  there." 

"  It's  caught  us,  too,  I  guess,"  said  Mary,  trying  her 
best  to  be  cheerful. 

"  I  don't  see  why  they  couldn't  have  put  a  little  paint  on," 
complained  Mrs.  Hinckley,  when  they  were  nearer. 

"  They  were  probably  paying  out  all  their  money  for 
interest  on  our  mortgage,"  said  Libbie. 

"  If  we'd  known  where  they  lived,  I  don't  believe  we 
could  have  taken  a  cent  of  it,"  mourned  Mary. 

Sam  broke  in  on  their  remarks.  "  I  wonder  where  the 
barn  is.  "  he  said,  "  There's  an  old  cow-shed  out  there, 
but  the  mortgage  said  '  a  good  barn.'  " 

"  Oh,  they  call  anything  a  barn  out  here,"  said  Libbie, 
"  where  they  can  find  a  pole  to  tie  horses  to.  I  guess  that 
stone  place  is  the  chicken-house." 

In  time  they  had  reached  the  barren  yard,  and  driven 
up  in  front  of  the  house. 

"  Welcome  home  I  "  said  Libbie,  sarcastically. 

Mary  was  peeping  in  through  the  windows,  having  tried 
the  door  and  found  it  fastened.  "  Two  rooms  down 
stairs,"  she  announced,  "  plastered,  and  papered  with 
newspapers.  Isn't  it  funny  there  isn't  any  porch  or  shade 


Qjiicksand  311 

of  any  kind,  nor  tree  in  the  yard,  nor  bush,  nor  —  well, 
nor  anything  hardly  1  " 

"  The  wind  has  blown  them  all  away,"^said  Libbie,  drily. 
"  Come,  mother,  we  may  as  well  get  out." 

Sam  was  getting  his  hatchet  to  open  the  door,  which 
was  nailed.  He  could  climb  in  through  an  unfastened  win 
dow.  The  women  were  preparing  to  go  inside,  beating 
against  the  wind  which  caught  their  skirts  when  they 
stepped  from  the  protected  shelter  on  the  north  of  the 
house,  where  the  wagon  had  stopped.  They  could  hear 
Sam  tramping  on  the  floor,  then  the  sound  of  the  drawing 
of  nails.  Suddenly  the  door  flew  back.  The  wind  had 
caught  it  in  its  gust,  and  was  circling  around  the  bleak 
little  room. 

"  This  is  the  kitchen,"  said  Mary  ;  "  and  here  is  the 
sitting-room.  Look  1  How  funny  the  stairs  go  up  !  Let's 
run  up  and  see  the  bedrooms." 

"  Not  much !  If  this  house  blows  over,  I  prefer  to  be 
down  on  the  ground,"  said  Libbie,  wiping  the  dust  from 
her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  sat  down  on  the  stair,  and  began  a 
peevish,  fretful  crying.  "  I'd  never  have  come  if  I'd 
known  it  was  like  this,"  she  said. 

"  O  mother,  the  upstair  rooms  are  neat  and  nice,  only 
the  wind  roars  a  little  'round  the  corners.  Libbie  and  I 
will  get  the  beds  in,  and  the  kitchen  dishes ;  and  we'll 
have  a  nice,  warm  supper.  It'll  be  such  a  rest  to  get  into 
a  house  and  do  a  little  comfortable  cooking.  This  is  the 
third  day  of  this  terrible  wind,  and  we're  all  of  us  nervous 
and  distracted." 

Mrs.  Hinckley's  condition  roused  both  of  the  daughters 
to  action ;  and,  with  their  practical  knowledge  of  camp 
life,  they  soon  had  a  compromise  of  living,  half  house- 
like  and  haif  savage,  but  fairly  comfortable  and  ship- 


3i2  Qjuicksand 

shape.  The  little  camp-stove  was  set  up  in  the  kitchen, 
some  old  pipe  found  in  the  chicken-house  serving  to  carry 
the  smoke. 

Sam  soon  came  in  with  a  pail  of  water.  "  The  well  is  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the  barn,"  he  said,  "  but  there's  a 
rope  there,  and  pulley  and  everything.  I  guess  the  people 
use  it  who  go  by,  or  some  of  the  neighbours,  maybe. 
The  water  is  sweet,  too,  and  clear ;  but  the  well  is  full 
seventy  feet  deep.  I  measured  on  the  rope  as  I  pulled 
up." 

"  Where  are  the  horses  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Oh,  I  tied  them  in  that  straw  and  pole  stable :  there's 
a  manger  in  there  and  pegs  for  harness.  It  can  be  made 
comfortable  for  winter  by  piling  some  straw  around.  But 
it's  not  much  like  a  barn,"  he  added  gloomily. 

"  Well,  we  can't  expect  much  in  a  deserted  place.  It's 
a  great  deal  better  than  camping,  and  I'm  glad  we  found 
anything  at  all,"  said  Mary.  "Does  your  shoulder  pain 
you  very  much  ?  " 

"  I  feel  so  weak,"  sighed  Sam. 

"  Well,  go  upstairs  and  change  the  bandage.  I  will 
have  some  warm  water  in  a  jiffy.  Libbie  is  making  a  table 
of  the  boxes,  and  we'll  have  supper  early  to-night.  You're 
weak  with  hunger,  I  guess.  Cold  bread  is  not  very 
nourishing." 

"Libbie,"  she  said,  after  he  had  gone  and  their  mother 
was  upstairs  with  him,  "  isn't  it  curious  how  much  we've 
learned  in  five  weeks  ?  If  we'd  been  turned  in  here  the 
day  we  left  home,  we  couldn't  have  got  supper  in  half  a 
day ;  and  now  camp  life  has  taught  us  to  make  every 
thing  cosey  in  a  minute,  and  the  ham  and  potatoes  do 
smell  just  fine." 

There  was  a  homelike  comfort  in  sitting  down  to  the 
steaming  hot  supper.  Sam  looked  wan  and  tired,  but 


Qjjicksand  313 

his  weakness  had  strengthened  the  mother  ;  and  their  talk 
was  cheerful  around  the  board,  as  they  planned  the  work 
for  the  morrow.  The  wind,  too,  had  subsided  at  sunset ; 
and  the  sky  burned  like  a  huge  opal,  set  off  by  the  dull, 
sombre  plain.  As  Mary  and  Libbie  ran  back  and  forth 
from  the  house  to  the  wagon,  carrying  the  bedding  for 
the  night,  the  joy  of  this  wild  country  was  in  them ;  and 
their  spirits  came  up  like  the  wind  that  had  fallen. 
Never  had  they  known  this  animal-like  sense  of  exhila 
ration.  The  sky  seemed  shouting  for  glory. 

"  I  think  I  shall  like  it,  after  all,"  said  Libbie,  "  if  only 
we  had  more  neighbours." 

"  And  if  crops  and  the  garden  will  grow,"  put  in 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  this  is  nearly  November  now.  Of  course,  every 
thing  looks  barren.  Besides,  no  one's  worked  this  place 
for  a  year;  and  that  always  makes  a  big  difference  in 
looks." 

"  I  wonder  whether  the  people  were  happy,"  said  Mary, 
looking  at  the  house  musingly. 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  us,  so  long  as  we  are  happy  ?  " 
replied  Libbie. 

"  If  Sam  would  only  get  well !  " 

"  Oh,  they  say  there's  a  good  doctor  in  the  town." 

"  That's  three  miles,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  that's  the  nearest  church.  Still,  it's  no  far 
ther  than  Fort  Madison." 

"  It's  a  little,  bleak-looking  town." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  assented  Libbie. 

"  Well,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it,  I  suppose.  We 
can  stand  anything  if  mother  is  contented." 

That  night  they  knew  the  shelter  of  a  house, —  the 
third  home  for  Mrs.  Hinckley.  "  It  at  least  will  be  free 
from  hauntings,"  she  said.  "  There  are  no  ghosts  here 
of  the  past." 


314  Qjiicksand 

But  one  ghost  haunted  Mary's  chamber;  and,  rising 
stealthily,  so  as  not  to  waken  Libbie,  she  slipped  away,  a 
white  figure,  to  the  window,  and,  folding  a  blanket  as  of 
mourning  around  her,  she  gazed  over  the  floor  of  the 
prairie  out  into  the  miles  of  faint  darkness  to  where  the 
late  moon  was  now  rising, —  her  glowing  love-lamp  of  the 
east. 


VIII. 

THE  Hinckleys  had  need  of  the  long  sunny 
weather  which  followed  to  make  ready  for  the 
coming  winter.  There  was  everything  to  purchase 
and  arrange, —  furniture,  carpets,  and  stoves,  added  to 
the  confusion  of  repairing  and  papering  the  house.  Coal 
had  to  be  hauled  and  housed,  a  pig  and  some  chickens 
secured,  grain  purchased  and  stored  for  feeding,  and  hay 
for  the  horses  and  cow.  Then  Sam  was  busy  with  the 
barn  and  necessary  yards  and  shelters. 

Moreover,  Mrs.  Hinckley  wanted  a  fence  around  the 
house  and  garden, —  a  white  picket  fence  with  a  lawn,  as 
she  had  had  in  New  Hampshire  and  Iowa.  Out  here  in 
Kansas,  where  the  cattle  were  kept  from  the  roads,  there 
was  no  need  of  fences  for  keeping  things  out.  It  was  more 
economical  to  keep  things  in,  and  the  farmers  did  not 
fence  their  house  yards  and  gardens.  But  Mrs.  Hinckley 
was  not  satisfied  with  this  free-and-easy  way  of  doing.  A 
house  unfenced  was  to  her  no  better  than  a  public  shop. 
She  wanted  privacy,  she  wanted  respectability  and  re 
serve.  She  was  positive  that,  if  they  had  a  fence,  the 
neighbours  would  come  to  look  up  to  them  as,  indeed, 
their  station  demanded. 

There  were  long,  cold  rains  in  December,  though  the 
weather  was  rarely  freezing.  Sam,  now  worn  with  his 
sickness,  still  dragged  himself  into  the  weather,  and  began 
the  work  on  the  fence. 

"  Don't  go  out  in  the  wet,  Sam,"  pleaded  Mary. 
"  There  is  no  need  of  your  working  out  there." 

"Oh,  I've  got  to  do  something.  I  can't  sit  in  the 
house,  and  mother  won't  rest  till  she  gets  her  fence." 

"  Mother  is  sick  and  fretful.  You  mustn't  mind  what 
she  says,  but  use  your  own  judgment  instead." 


316  Qjiicksand 

"  I  don't  mind ;  but  it  hurts  less,  I  believe,  when  I'm 
working." 

"  You  ought  to  go  to  Kansas  City,  as  we  all  want  you 
to  do,"  said  Libbie,  just  then  coming  in. 

"  Oh,  what  do  we  know  about  the  doctors  in  Kansas 
City  ?  I'd  rather  die  than  be  butchered." 

"  You'll  catch  cold,"  said  Libbie,  anxiously. 

"  I  won't  catch  cold,"  grumbled  Sam. 

"Well,  he  will  have  his  own  way,"  sputtered  Libbie, 
after  he  was  gone ;  "  but,  before  winter  is  over,  he'll  be 
wishing  he  had  listened  to  us,  and  you  mark  my  word, 
Sam  Hinckley." 

Sam  did  catch  the  cold  that  was  prophesied,  but  he 
did  not  seem  much  to  regret  it.  He  was  listless  of  liv 
ing  now,  once  he  had  the  women-folk  comfortable.  He 
never  spoke  of  putting  a  crop  into  the  dust-blowing  soil 
of  the  prairies.  The  fields  were  not  those  of  the  old 
Mississippi  bottom,  and  he  did  not  long  for  new  farming. 

"  What's  the  use  ?  "  he  said  wearily.  "  Keep  the  horses 
and  the  cow,  and  that's  enough.  We've  got  money 
enough  to  keep  us.  Wait  till  the  spring  before  planning. 
Maybe  then  we  won't  need  any  plans." 

Libbie,  seeing  this  inattention,  set  actively  to  work  with 
her  chickens,  thinking  to  keep  expenses  paid  with  the 
eggs.  She  bought  young  pullets  from  the  neighbours,  set 
up  the  little  camp-stove  in  the  henhouse  for  cold  weather, 
and  talked  of  an  incubator  in  the  spring,  and  a  yard  and 
more  modern  improvements.  Eggs  brought  a  good  price 
in  the  town,  and  her  thrift  was  already  being  rewarded. 
She  had  made  acquaintance  with  the  storekeepers  and 
neighbours,  and  even  now  they  said  of  Miss  Libbie  that 
she  was  the  spunkiest  one  of  the  family. 

No,  Sam  did  not  want  to  get  well.  The  blizzards  came 
on  in  January,  and  howled  like  the  prairie  wolves.  Lib- 


Qjjicksand  317 

bie  took  care  of  the  horses  and  did  the  milking,  and  Sam 
lay  on  the  lounge  by  the  stove,  and  watched  Mary  as  she 
went  about  her  duties,  now  double,  of  house-maid  and 
nurse ;  for  the  mother,  too,  was  feeble  again,  and  keeping 
often  to  her  bed.  Sam  usually  kept  his  Bible  with  him, 
and  alternately  read  and  reflected.  Mary  thought  some 
times,  as  she  watched  him,  that  in  his  quiet  moments  he 
was  praying. 

"  Mary,"  he  said  to  her  one  day,  "  I  wish  you  had  mar 
ried  Hiram." 

She  could  not  answer  just  then,  but  gave  sign  that  she 
was  paying  attention. 

"  A  man  should  be  married,  and  so  should  a  woman," 
Sam  continued.  "  They  should  marry  when  they  are 
young." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  we  wronged  Hubert  by 
being  vexed  that  he  married  Maud,"  said  Mary,  when  he 
was  thinking. 

"  Yes,  and  then  we  should  have  let  him  alone.  A  man 
must  fight  his  own  battles.  You  liked  Maud,  didn't 
you  ?  "  he  asked  earnestly,  after  an  interval  of  silence. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  not  so  much  as  I  could  if 
I'd  tried,"  faltered  Mary. 

"  Do  you  think  she's  happy  now  ?  " 

"  She  seems  at  least  to  be  more  cheerful.  She  says 
her  step-father  is  very  kind." 

"  Do  you  suppose,  if  I  get  very  sick,  that  I'll  be  deli 
rious,  Mary  ? " 

"  Why,  let  us  hope  you  won't  get  very  sick.  Libbie  is 
delirious  sometimes  when  she  has  a  nervous  headache." 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  never  tells  things,  does  she  ?  I  mean 
real  things  that  have  happened  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  she  just  babbles.  Don't  you  remember  when 
she  thought  she  was  a  preacher  ?  " 


Qjjicksand 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I  guess  it's  only  when  they  have 
brain  fever  that  they  tell  things."  . 

"  I  never  knew  a  case  of  brain  fever,"  replied  Mary. 

"  But,  if  I  ever  do  get  delirious,"  continued  Sam,  "  and 
there's  a  chance  of  my  telling  things,  Mary,  will  you  keep 
Libbie  and  mother  away,  and  never  tell  them  what  I'm 
saying  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course,  Sam,  if  you  wish  it.  I  should  not 
like  to  be  delirious,  either,"  she  said,  blushing.  "I'm 
glad  I  never  get  sick." 

"  You  mean  you'd  talk  about  Hiram." 

"  Maybe.    I  can't  tell,  you  know,  Sam." 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  tell  only  lies,  all  sorts  of  lies.  But 
you  must  never  repeat  them,  Mary.  I  don't  want  mother 
or  Libbie  to  hear  them." 

"  No,  Sam." 

Again  he  would  wander  to  religion,  and  talk  of  heaven 
and  salvation. 

"  Do  you  believe  one  could  be  saved  who  has  always 
been  in  the  church,  but  has  not  been  converted  ? "  he 
asked  one  day. 

"Father  used  to  think  so,"  said  Mary,  "at  least  be 
fore  he  was  converted.  I  don't  see  why  it  might  not  be 
true.  "But" — glancing  toward  the  sitting-room  door  — 
"  I  wouldn't  hurt  mother's  feelings  by  saying  it." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  Maud,  then,  for  instance,  will  be 
saved,  provided  she's  never  converted  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Mary,  who  would  never 
condemn  any  soul  she  knew,  if  it  were  positively  not  blas 
phemy  to  miss  it. 

"  But,  if  she's  sinned, —  just  supposing  she  sinned  ter 
ribly, —  why,  then  would  she  have  to  pray  and  be  con 
verted  in  order  to  be  taken  to  heaven  ?  " 

"  I  think  the  Lord  would  be  merciful,"  said  Mary ;  and 


Qjuicksand  319 

then  she  took  up  the  questions,  and  continued  :  "  Do  you 
think  with  mother,  Sam,  that  Maud  drew  Hubert  away 
from  religion,  and  that  his  confusion  in  finding  himself  an 
infidel  drove  him  to  take  his  own  life  ?  " 

Sam  gave  a  steady  reply.  "  There  were  a  great  many 
things  weighing  on  Hubert,  and  you  know  he  was  never 
quite  strong.  Maud  may  have  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  Woman  is  always  the  tempter  of  man.  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  was  altogether  the  religion  that  drove  Hubert  to 
insanity ;  but  I  do  suppose  that,  if  he  had  held  true  relig 
ion,  he  would  not  have  gone  as  he  did." 

"  Do  you  think  he  was  insane,  really,  Sam  ?  " 

"  Temporarily,  perhaps.  They  say  they  all  are  who 
are  driven  to  take  their  own  life.  But  we  mustn't  blame 
Maud  too  much,  Mary." 

"  I  don't  blame  any  one,  Sam,  but  myself,  just  a  little." 

"  How  were  you  to  blame  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  been  different  to  Maud." 

"  Well,  we  ought  to  forgive  her,  all  of  us."  And  then  ner 
vously,  after  some  thinking :  "  Mary,  just  to  show  her  that  I 
have  forgiven  her,  in  case,  you  know,  anything  happens  to 
me,  will  you  take  this  ring  off  my  finger,  and  send  it  to  her 
with  —  well,  suppose  you  say,  with  my  love  ?  You  know  the 
Lord  tells  us  to  love  one  another ;  and,  after  all,  Maud  is 
our  sister.  Will  you  just  send  it,  Mary,  with  those  words, — 
those  words  are  enough, —  with  my  love  ?  That,  you 
know,  is  better  than  forgiveness." 

Mary  burst  into  tears.  "  That's  just  what  Hiram  said 
once,"  she  was  sobbing. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Sam,  uneasily. 

"  That  love  was  better  than  forgiveness.  He  said  for 
giveness  was  only  a  kind  of  patronizing." 

"  That's  not  Scripture,"  objected  Sam ;  but  he  was  lost 
in  some  minutes  of  thinking. 


320  Q^uicksand 

"  But  you'll  promise,  Mary,  about  the  ring  ?  "  he  asked 
•on  rousing  again. 

"  I  promise,  Sam." 

"  And  you  needn't  say  anything  to  Libbie  or  mother." 

"  But,  then,  you'd  better  take  the  ring  off  now  •  for 
if  — if— " 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  I  died, —  don't  cry,  Mary, — if  I  died  with 
it  on,  you  mean,  they  would  miss  it." 

"  Yes,  Sam.     Don't  talk  of  dying." 

"  Well,  we  are  only  supposing  of  course.  There's  no 
harm  talking  of  it,  is  there  ?  " 

Then  again,  after  a  pause:  "No,  I'll  leave  the  ring 
where  it  is.  Just  pretend  that  you  lost  it,  Mary,  or  that 
it  got  mislaid  somewhere." 

The  days  dragged  drearily  on.  February  was  a  snowy 
month  that  year,  and  the  keen  wind  was  bitter  and  biting. 
March  began  with  thawing,  chill  winds,  and  grey  clouds 
hung  over  the  slush  ;  and  it  seemed  there  could  never  be 
an  April.  It  was  in  April  that  Sam  Hinckley  died.  The 
disease  had  eaten  his  vitals.  The  women  were  sick  with 
its  horror. 

The  neighbours  were  very  kind,  especially  Mr.  Fox,  of 
the  red  whiskers,  who  could  even  throw  aside  his  tobacco 
when  he  went  into  the  room  of  the  dying.  Libbie  quite 
came  to  love  him  for  his  kindness.  Mrs.  Fox  said  play 
fully  she  was  getting  jealous. 

They  buried  Sam  in  the  wind-blown,  barren  little 
graveyard  a  half  mile  south  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Hinckley 
was  well  enough  to  go  to  the  funeral,  and  the  minister's 
words  were  very  touching. 

"  I'll  come  up,  and  do  your  chores  as  usual,"  said  Mr. 
Fox,  when  they  were  leaving  the  grave.  "  I  don't  think 
anything  of  two  miles  and  a  half.  The  roads  are  good 
here  for  April."  But  Libbie  and  Mary  both  thanked  him. 


Qjjicksand  321 

"We    must  get  used  to  the  work  now  ourselves,"  they 
answered.     "  We  have  done  it  all  winter,  in  fact." 

The  three  women  got  into  the  wagon,  and  drove  back 
over  the  brown  prairie  to  their  little  box  house  with  its 
unfinished  picket  fence.     They  must  now  face  the  world 
alone.     Their    men-folk    had    been    taken    from    them,  I  \ 
through  the  will  of  their  blessed  Lord. 


IX. 

THE  years  went  monotonously  on,  but  the  history 
of  the  Hinckley  family  is  quite  ended.     It  is  very 
dreary  where  one's  history  ends  long  before  death 
comes  gathering.     To  stand  barren  and  parching  from 
year  to  year,  bearing  no  fruit  of  love,  giving  no  good  to 
the  world,  loving  always  of  course, —  for  love  is  essential 
to  woman, —  but   seeing   no   results   of  one's   love,  only 
querulousness   and    jealousy  and   interference  with  free 
dom  of  action. 

Mrs.  Hinckley  lived,  or,  it  were  better  to  say,  Mrs. 
Hinckley  did  not  die  for  some  fifteen  years  after  Sam. 
She  sat  most  of  the  time  in  her  rocking-chair,  watch 
ful  of  the  movements  of  her  daughters, —  asking  them 
what  they  had  done  when  they  came  in,  admonishing 
them  what  not  to  do  when  they  went  out,  petulant  and 
exacting  and  affectionate,  sadly  wondering  how  they 
would  get  on  when  she  was  no  longer  spared  to  direct 
them.  "  A  patient,  good  woman,"  said  the  neighbours, 
"  who  suffers  terribly  from  sickness,  and  who  had  seen  bet 
ter  times  than  now."  There  were,  indeed,  severities  and 
stringencies  that  would  give  younger  people  ground  for 
complaint, —  the  whistling  driving  of  the  wind,  the  flying 
dust,  the  cold  of  winter  storms,  the  heat  of  summer  days, 
the  hail-storms,  and  fear  of  cyclones  which  so  exasperat- 
ingly  always  are  threatened,  and  never  come  to  fulfil  pre 
dictions.  There  were  blessings,  too,  as  in  all  countries, — 
the  freshness  and  beauty  of  spring,  the  growth  of  the 
early  summer,  the  Indian  duskiness  of  autumn,  and  the 
open  softness  of  the  winter.  Most  of  all,  the  immensity 
and  wonder  of  the  night.  But  these  Mrs.  Hinckley  did 
not  notice  ;  for  she  sat  in  the  little  box  house,  and  in  good 
seasons  remembered  the  bad,  and  recounted  all  of  her 
suffering,  and  foretold  uncomfortable  change. 


Qjiicksand  323 

She  had  too  much  occupation  in  thinking  over  her  life 
of  the  past,  and  dwelling  on  all  of  its  sadness,  and  specu 
lating  why  the  Lord  had  given  her  so  much  more  to  bear 
than  other  women,  and  wondering  if  she  would  be  suf 
ficiently  rewarded  when  she  entered  the  cities  of  heaven. 
Certainly,  she  said,  she  would  sit  in  higher  seats  than  her 
old  neighbours  who  had  not  suffered.  But  she  would 
be  gracious  to  them,  once  they  had  recognised  that  she 
was  truly  their  superior,  when  they  knew  of  the  Cum- 
mings  family  and  all  of  her  grandfather's  ancestors.  But 
her  thoughts  would  soon  turn  back  from  heaven  to  her 
earthly  homes  of  the  past.  The  old  Cummings  home 
stead  in  Tamworth,  white  and  stately  among  its  green 
trees:  that  was  a  home  to  be  remembered.  Her  girl 
hood  was  spent  there,  and  the  happiness  of  the  young 
wife  and  mother.  Twenty  years  she  had  ruled ;  and  they 
were  thriving, —  thriving,  according  to  Mrs.  Hinckley's 
idea.  Then  came  a  curse,  blackening  the  place;  a 
baby's  fretful,  faint  wailing ;  and  the  remorse  of  remem 
bering  her  daughter's  wan  face  pleading  with  the  March 
wind  and  the  darkness. 

In  Elizabeth  Hinckley's  philosophy  it  was  this  single 
sin  of  the  daughter  that  wrought  all  their  disaster  and 
ruin.  No  matter  how  they  had  tried,  that  sin  could  never 
be  lived  down.  No  matter  how  they  might  keep  it  secret, 
its  curse  came  up  in  the  end.  Had  not  she  herself  taken 
vall  of  the  affairs  of  her  family  into  her  own  control,  and 
managed  with  superhuman  cunning  and  wisdom?  And 
yet  all  had  failed  in  the  end.  Yes,  it  was  Adelaide  who 
had  cursed  them, —  her  daughter  whom  she  had  nurtured 
in  ignorance  of  all  evil.  Or  perhaps,  as  was  more  in  ac 
cordance  with  religion,  it  was  Satan  who  had  seized  upon 
this  daughter  as  a  tool ;  and  the- wise  Lord  had  permitted 
the  measure,  in  order  that  the  mother,  through  suffering, 


tf/ 

324  Qjjicksand 

should  be  raised  to  a  higher  plane  in  heaven,  and  Ade 
laide  would  stand  forgiven  at  last,  weeping  at  the  judg 
ment-seat  of  God. 

These  were  the  comforts  of  religion ;  and  added  to 
them  were  the  still  greater  comforts  of  her  two  daughters 
waiting  upon  her,  denying  themselves  individuality  of 
living,  and  giving  her  all  of  their  love, — warped  and 
twisted  though  it  be,  still  strenuous  and  deep  and  sincere, 
—  all  that  was  vital  of  their  souls. 

And,  indeed,  to  merit  such  love,  the  mother  had  given 
strong  affection  to  them.  Elizabeth  Hinckley  was  a 
strong  and  capable  woman ;  and  all  her  strength  centered 
in  this,  her  absorbing  love  for  her  family.  As  witnesses 
stand  the  two  homes :  the  New  England  one,  with  the 
wailing  wind  haunting  the  lilacs ;  and  the  white  one  in  the 
valley  of  the  river,  with  the  swinging  shadow  in  its 
cellar.  A  trail  as  of  some  crawling  serpent  was  dragged 
half-way  across  the  continent.  It  was  the  relic  of  her 
Family  Love. 


X. 

MARY,  looking  toward  the  east,  waiting  for  the 
oncoming  night,  the  morning  long  since  behind 
her, —  how  were  the  years  leaving  her  ? 

There  are  some  dispositions  that  nothing  can  embitter, 
no  matter  how  the  life  be  thwarted  and  ruined.  Mary 
Hinckley's  was  one  of  these.  Patient,  smiling,  help 
ful,  she  went  about  her  routine  of  work, — cooking,  clean 
ing,  clothing,  taking  quiet  interest  in  her  neighbours, 
giving  ceaseless  attention  to  her  mother  and  untiring 
faithfulness  to  Libbie.  Sometimes  she  was  pouting,  of 
course,  speaking  out  gently  against  things,  but  only  to 
give  contrast  it  seemed, —  to  avoid  the  monotony  of  al 
ways  being  good,  and  thought  of  in  connection  with 
Sunday-schools  and  morals  and  other  disagreeable  supe 
riorities  that  belong  to  the  class  of  the  saved,  according 
to  the  orthodox  religion.  But  this  flash  of  reaction  was 
only  a  flash,  and  never  gave  trouble  when  dependence 
was  needed.  Mary  went  on  with  her  work,  waiting  upon 
her  mother  while  she  lived  and  taking  in  plain  sewing 
from  the  town  to  help  at  supporting  the  family. 

Libbie  was  the  active  one  of  the  three,  doing  the  man's 
work  of  the  farm.  They  rented  the  fields  to  some  neigh 
bour  ;  but  Libbie  did  the  work  of  the  garden,  taking  care 
of  the  stock  and  selling  her  butter  and  eggs.  It  was  a 
healthy,  working  life  for  the  two  women.  But  women 
seem  incomplete  without  the  exercise  of  one  function, — 
the  bearing  and  rearing  of  children.  At  least,  this  is  so 
of  such  women  as  Libbie  and  Mary.  They  need  the  love, 
too,  of  some  strong,  hearty  man.  Most  of  all  they  need 
him  for  loving. 

So  it  came  that,  being  deprived  of  all  natural  objects 
on  which  to  place  their  affection,  they  were  left  to  wear 


326  Qjiicksand 

it  out  on  each  other  after  their  mother  had  died.  Who 
does  not  know  the  story?  Two  sisters  living  together, 
and  loving  each  other  into  misery.  Not  that  they  may 
not  seem  happy  to  strangers, —  indeed,  may  often  be  happy 
when  alone,  if  happiness  can  go  along  with  starving. 
"The  Hinckley  old  maids,"  as  they  were  called,  were 
generally  liked  by  the  neighbours,  and  were  spoken  of  as 
nice  girls  and  jolly,  and  were  never  failing  in  cases  of 
sickness.  Yes,  they  were  happy,  these  two,  as  thousands 
of  women  are  happy. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  "  Why  can't  you  wait  till  I 
go  ?  "  "  What  will  you  do  all  alone  ?  "  "  Where  were 
you  those  fifteen  minutes  yesterday,  when  you  were  not 
with  me  ?  "  "  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  "  "  Was  that 
all  ?  "  "Do  you  like  him  as  well  as  some  other ? " 
"  Didn't  you  wish  I  was  there  ?  "  So  the  chain  endlessly 
runs ;  and  there  is  never  a  confidence  given,  because  all 
is  dragged  out  by  force  long  before  the  thinker  is  sure  of 
herself.  There  is  no  independence  of  living.  As  the 
Kansas  wind  wore  and  nagged  on  the  nerves,  so  the 
temper  of  Libbie  brought  equal  strain  to  her  sister. 

Sometimes  Mary  longed  to  go  back, —  to  go  home,  as 
she  wistfully  spoke  of  it.  But  the  effect  on  Libbie  was 
disastrous.  She  would  be  irritable  and  jealous  for  days, 
full  of  old-time  suspicions,  even  carrying  them  to  the 
point  of  illness,  with  fits  of  hysterical  weeping.  Did 
Mary  not  love  her  ?  she  sobbed.  Did  she  long  to  get 
away  from  her  sister  who  had  cherished  and  protected 
her  so  long?  Was  it  not  enough  to  have  her  to  live 
for, —  her  dear  Libbie,  who  thought  of  nothing  else  ex 
cept  the  comfort  of  her  sister  ?  So  Mary  told  herself 
patience  again.  Both  she  and  Hiram  feared  that  Libbie 
would  go  the  way  of  Hubert  if  her  jealousy  should  be 
aroused  by  their  marriage ;  and  the  winds  blew  hot  in 


Qjiicksand  327 

summer  and  cold  in  the  winter  again,  and  the  bleak  life 
went  frettingly  on. 

She  was  forty-five  years  old  when  her  mother  died. 
There  were  only  another  twenty-five  years  to  be  lonely  in, 
she  said;  and  Hiram  was  now  nearing  sixty,  and  was 
already  sporting  with  his  grandchildren,  for  Olga  had  mar 
ried  at  twenty,  and  now  mothered  a  boy  and  a  girl.  "  Then, 
too,"  thought  the  care-worn  Mary,  "  I  cannot  be  to  him 
as  I  was  then.  He  thinks  of  me,  of  course,  as  I  was. 
But  my  face  is  wrinkled  and  dried  in  the  wind,  and  my 
eyes  have  a  squint  from  the  light.  The  thin  dry  hair  I 
have  left  is  streaked  into  weather-worn  grey,  there  are 
shadows  under  my  eyes,  and  my  teeth  have  grown  ragged 
with  decay."  So  it  was  not  such  a  denial  as  might  be  to 
go  on  living  for  Libbie,  who  had  only  her  in  return ;  and 
who  was  likewise  hard-favoured  and  awkward,  stiffened  by 
the  wind  and  the  weather. 

But  there  were  times  of  the  full  harvest  moon  when 
Mary  returned  to  her  girlhood,  She  would  slip  away 
from  Libbie  those  nights,  and  running  on  the  saffron 
wide  plains  would  turn  her  face  up  to  the  moon ;  and  its 
light  would  give  youthfulness  to  her,  even  youth's  love 
and  its  tears.  Then  she  saw  Hiram  again,  felt  his 
strength  clasping  her  closely.  He  was  not,  indeed,  the 
Hiram  of  old ;  for  his  hair  was  white  now  with  waiting, 
and  lines  that  came  from  long  years  of  kindness  were 
seaming  his  loving  face.  She  saw  behind  him  the  house 
he  had  made  cheerful,  whence  the  swinging  shadow  was 
driven  away.  She  saw  the  children  who  loved  him,  and 
who  grew  up  and  left  him  for  lives  of  their  own,  to  give 
place  to  other  children  coming,  they,  too,  in  good  time  to 
bless  him. 

But  on  these  nights  his  love  lived  for  her,  Mary,  the 
heart's  wife  he  had  chosen,  but  had  never  taken  to  arms. 


328  Qjiicksand 

Now  from  the  moon  came  his  kisses.  From  the  sky  his 
eyes  smiled  love  down  on  her.  Blue,  tender,  laughing, 
manly  eyes,  Hiram's ;  tender  as  the  kisses  on  her  mouth. 
Then  it  was  she  stretched  out  her  arms,  and  ran 
toward  the  light  of  the  moon,  the  youth-love  tremulous 
in  her  face.  She  ran  and  ran,  calling,  "  Hiram  I  "  Ran 
till  her  breath  was  gone  from  her ;  and  her  tears,  cloud 
ing  out  the  fair  moon,  would  leave  her  an  old  woman, 
weeping,  quivering  in  helpless  heap  on  dead  grass,  the 
night  breeze  wisping  her  hair  on  her  sallowed  cheek, 
withered  and  ghastly. 


THE     END. 


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